A Challenging Quest
by wryter501
Summary: Merlin the adopted prince of Caerleon travels in search of heritage and destiny and his dragonlord father. Arthur, prince regent of Camelot following his father's debilitating illness, travels upon his Knight's Quest as a condition for coronation - and a young man who's given up on heritage and destiny joins them both. Sequel to "Challenging Hostage", canon era a/u, no slash.
1. The Vaguaries of Destiny and Fate

**A Challenging Quest**

 **Chapter 1: Disappointment: The Vagaries of Destiny and Fate**

 _(Mere months ago…)_

Mordred remembered being three or four years old and falling asleep on his father's knee as the druid elders discussed magic and policy. He remembered the pleasant throb of heat and his father's shoulder as his pillow, his father's arm his blanket, and he remembered being moved to the cool dim of his family's tent. His mother whispered and hummed, hands soft and gentle to lay him to deeper sleep on his pallet.

Sometimes he thought he remembered older brothers or sisters, tall enough to seem adult to him. But maybe they were just friends or neighbors. Cerdan hadn't known for sure.

Cerdan was gone, too.

Mordred opened his eyes to the meagre flickers of the tiny fire he'd managed, between his feet and just below his hands, he huddled so close for warmth.

The forest was frozen around him, dark and silent, but it was the loneliness that would kill him. He could make the fire-spell work and there was always wood to burn. He was a druid and could find something to put in his belly, even in the dead of winter. Banishment from the clan was not a death sentence.

It was the loneliness that would kill him. That, and the utter lack of purpose. No family, no home – they'd repudiated him after the trial, and she hadn't said one word. Not to share the blame with him, not to apologize for fearing the banishment too much to confess and join him in it – for he still wouldn't deny her and watch her leave alone, as she had done to him. Not to thank him for bearing her guilt on his shoulders along with his cloak and pack.

No purpose, no home, no destination. He could try to find a clan more understanding, more forgiving. He could journey to the refuge of Helva and scratch out a new existence and identity, for himself. He could try to hide and deny his origins and blend into a town or village; he wasn't yet too old for an apprentice, and because he was small, he could claim he was younger than his fifteen years. He could try to seek answers for why his life seemed so cursed – there were places and persons of power who might give him that, he knew…

Mordred rubbed thin grimy hands together and stared blindly into the fitful tongues of flame that heated his hands and feet and legs but left his back chilled to uncontrollable shivers.

He was cursed. He didn't need the answers from the forbidden magic he planned to attempt with Kara to tell him that. Did it matter how or why? No one cared to help him; he had nothing of value to give to anyone with the ability to help him.

Death, and loss. And more loss, over and over. His first family, in a raid that left him a sole survivor, hidden and mute with terror still half-remembered in hazy dream-flashes. Then Cerdan, who'd found him and taken him as a ward, executed in Camelot not even three years ago. Handed from Iseldir's clan to another as though the execution was his fault, his rescue by the Pendragon prince and princess tainting him with confusion and debt. And now, to have Kara disappoint him so utterly, and lose yet another person he'd trusted, yet another family-clan.

Another piece of his heart.

The exile wasn't a death sentence, unless he simply quit caring for himself like everyone else always did. Between starving or freezing, he thought maybe freezing was the better choice. But he couldn't quite bring himself to douse the flames and allow the darkness to swallow him.

It served him right for trying to discover his destiny. That was forbidden magic but it required two – it wasn't a ritual one could perform on one's self – and he'd volunteered to go first. Kara's idea, Kara's obsession, Kara's discovery – but if it was going to be dangerous, he wouldn't let her do it alone, or go first.

Of course he wasn't going to tell the elders that when they interrupted the ritual, livid with offense. But it hurt that she didn't tell them that, either. She let him stand trial alone, let him walk from the camp alone…

Tears stung his eyes and he let them fall. His hands were too grubby to wipe them away anyway.

Maybe he'd discovered his destiny after all. To be perpetually rejected and alone. To be meaningless and abandoned, to die unnoticed.

Weariness overwhelmed misery and he slept, curled up and hunched over in the roots of an old tree.

Some inadequate time later he woke to daylight, and a man standing over him, gray-streaked brown hair pushed back from his face and curving long to cover his ears. The man grinned widely through a patchy beard.

"Well, what do we have here?"

Mordred's eyes dropped to the battle axe hanging from a loop in the man's belt, next to a dagger as long as his arm, and he panicked. Using magic to shove the stranger backward off his feet, Mordred scrambled up to run – too tired, too slow, too stiff and cold.

Too stupid.

Pain slammed through the right side of his jaw and his vision blanked long enough for him to tumble down onto the frost-hardened ground.

"Don't hurt him!" he heard a man's voice shout. "I want him alive! Did you see that? He has magic! He could be a-"

Mordred had to escape. Every part of him condensed to a core of agony and he _screamed_ , without making a sound.

But he'd misjudged his endurance. Movement was sluggish and uncoordinated, and then his body collapsed into darkness.

He woke a second time to a thudding headache, the ground icy-hard beneath his cheek and shoulder and hip, a shaft of sunlight piercing winter cloud-cover and skeletal branches overhead to blind him with momentary and reactive moisture. Twine rubbed his wrists numb and raw in front of him.

The long-haired, wide-mouthed man sat near him, tending a fire that crackled confidence and pride in size and strength. He had Mordred's bag open between his feet, and was riffling through his meagre belongings. He gave Mordred a sideways glance.

"You're a druid," he stated.

Shifting in discomfort, Mordred realized that he'd been searched while he'd been unconscious, his clothing disarranged. They'd have noticed the triskelion tattooed on his chest, then. He said nothing, only stared dully at the stranger.

"I'm called Ragnor," the man added. "Are you on your own, boy? Running from Uther, perhaps?"

Mordred didn't answer.

"We could use your magic," Ragnor told him. "You'd have a place with us. It would be safer for you than trying to survive alone." He gave Mordred a nasty, leering sort of grin, and snickers echoed from unseen positions – all around him, it seemed.

Bandits. Mercenaries. It didn't matter – at least it didn't sound like they were going to turn him over to the knights of Camelot.

"I bet you're hungry," Ragnor suggested invitingly, leaning forward to snag a small pot from its place nestled in the coals at the fire's base, with the prod-stick in his hand. "Come, boy, have something to eat and tell us your name. Promise to use your magic for us and not against us, and we'll leave free your hands. That sounds fair, dunnit? Here we go…"

…..*….. …..*….. …..*….. …..*….. …..*…..

Balinor ached all over. The memory of strenuous, unrelenting travel was blurry and miserable – running hard and fast and long, hiding to rest tense and jumpy, feeding his body minimal rations and scavenged mouthfuls to run again, in the downpouring rain. Plodding when he couldn't run. Shuffling would he couldn't plod any longer.

The village was a haven, a heaven; he knew he was beyond the border. The mud-daubed huts were indistinct in the sides of his vision, the peasant villagers nameless and unimportant, save for one, if he could only find her, if he could only reach her – meeting her for the first time but knowing he knew her and loved her…

The girl with kind eyes, who'd pulled the scarf from her hair to wipe fever-sweat from his face when he collapsed by the well. A stranger in a strange place, and no one else dared approach.

That smile. Those eyes. Unforgettable, and more dear to his soul – wounded by the betrayal that branded him traitor and betrayer – than water or gruel or medicine.

He knew he needed. And she listened willingly as he attempted to lance the poison from his spirit with words, desperate and pleading and slurred together and yet – he had not so far forgotten himself as to be _careless_ – unspecific.

Hunith. Ah, Hunith. That smile, as sweet under his lips as to his eyes, lifting him up from the muck of the roads and the farms, accepting, forgiving. Those eyes, deep and sympathetic without harboring pity, that shyly revealed love – a priceless chance at redemption.

A chance he'd taken, there in the ruins of his life. A chance he'd ruined again, betrayed again, lost again.

Foolish, maybe, but he'd meant the vow he whispered, broken words from a forsworn man, a paltry return for what she'd given him, the night the pure and shameless dark gasped and throbbed around him, and many nights after. So much fuel for a fire that still glowed red-hot and painful, deep within him like coals in ash, eager to burn an unwary sifting.

Those eyes, smiling down on him, shining with steadfast love. That smile, a curving promise of another kiss – and another, and more, in the privacy of the home she'd opened to include him.

Balinor ached like he'd been fleeing for his life for days. Like he'd been sleeping on rocky ground and scraping for sustenance, muscles and nerves taut with the constant strain of wary fear-

Why? He was safe in Ealdor, wasn't he? Hunith hovered over him – eyes, and smile, her hair unbound and almost drifting over his skin. He lifted his chin, wanting and _needing_ her touch – why did she hesitate and delay? – trying to lift arms too heavy and cold to reach her, to wrap her, arching his back from the bed in the hut-

The pallet in the cave-

If his lips could whisper, could form and force her name, she'd be real, she'd bend down to him and lie with him, warmth and comfort dearer than life itself, soothing his starved soul-

Balinor wrenched himself free of immobility, prying open closed eyes to sharp moonlight and deep shadow on rough natural stone walls. He was trembling; he swore breathlessly, repetitively. His words were echoed by a dripping at the far back of the cave where he dwelt, alone and yet not, anymore.

It was punishment. It was atonement. Who could say where one ended and the other began?

The oldest creature alive, maybe.

Balinor rolled off his pallet, finding his feet and leaving his cave.

The entrance was hidden from the path, a narrow treacherous track once used by the warily solitary creatures of the White Mountains, but he'd used it for nearly two years, as long as he and the other had resided there.

He turned his steps upward to the higher eyries. Even in the dark, his feet were sure on the path – sure, and weary, and slow. Maybe Kilgarrah was better than no company, but companionship doubled complication.

The air was luminous pre-dawn gray by the time he reached his destination, but the eyes of the great dragon gleamed open. Kilgarrah shifted and the darkness of his bulk against the rest of the mountain resolved into a supine dragon shape. Balinor seated himself upon a nearby rock with a sigh, making no effort to keep his back straight or his shoulders up.

"I wish to speak of Ealdor," he told his hands.

The great dragon huffed. "You are as repetitive as a child."

What a surprise. Since he'd been barely more than a boy when Uther betrayed him into becoming a betrayer twice over – first Kilgarrah, then Hunith – and he'd been alone ever since.

"Ealdor is gone," he said aloud.

They'd both seen it; the border village had been Balinor's first destination after he and Kilgarrah had sprung from the dragon's deep prison to the fresh night air, nearly two years ago. They'd struggled over that – Kilgarrah had been heavily inclined to punish Uther and Camelot, and Balinor had feared that skills unused for seventeen years, and minimally practiced before that, would not hold.

"Ealdor is gone," Kilgarrah agreed, as bored now as he had seemed, to touch down upon fallow cropland and watch Balinor dig and sift through the old ash and ruins of forty or more village houses.

"You are the last and I am the last," Balinor said, looking at his ancient kin from under his brows and tangled hair. A line of pink-yellow had appeared on the eastern horizon, between two of the neighboring mountain peaks. "Which of us do you think will outlast the other?"

It was a new argument – or a new angle to an old one – and if Kilgarrah noticed, he didn't show it. Or maybe he simply didn't care.

"I don't have to think," he informed Balinor in his raspy cadence, by now all too familiar. "You will die before I do, but not by many years. Less than a decade. But it is not certain that we two are the last of our kind."

Balinor absorbed the information without feeling much. There were always rumors, of course – dragon eggs stolen or rescued, recently or in centuries past, and of course left dormant without a 'lord to hatch them. He wouldn't be at all surprised that Kilgarrah was aware of any, particularly.

"Then why haven't you been keen on helping me search for my wife?" he demanded. "Are there other survivors of the lines of men, also? Or because your time without me will be short anyway, you don't care about preserving our heritage after we are gone?" He didn't quite dare ask if Kilgarrah somehow thought that he'd tainted his own line beyond reclaim; that he didn't deserve a son – a grandson – to be dragonlord after him. They two would die, and never would know or care if the legacy was revived elsewhere.

"Your wife can no longer bear you sons, anyway," Kilgarrah stated unemotionally.

"Because she is past childbearing age, wherever she is, or because she is dead?" Balinor flung at him the question he was convinced the dragon knew the answer to, but which he would never say clearly.

He'd sought the two villages nearest Ealdor, but no one could say for sure whether Hunith had been killed in the bandit raid years ago or not; no one remembered her name or her. If anyone had survived, they had not relocated to either town. And Balinor was too aware of the delicate political balance between Uther and Cenred to linger overlong. Distracted in his own search for a missing Lady, did not mean oblivious to an escaped dragon – and Cenred would surely seek the advantage against his enemy that Kilgarrah and Balinor represented. And Balinor was not at all sure that Kilgarrah would not ally readily against Uther, leaving him on his own to escape a greedy king's machinations. Again.

So they'd retreated here to the mountains together.

"Perhaps I should venture down from our mountain and out into the world, then," Balinor challenged the beast. "Find a young lady willing enough, and bear a son to be your lord after me."

Kilgarrah lifted his head, ostensibly staring toward the sunrise, but then chest and shoulders followed as he towered above Balinor, maybe not as indifferent as he pretended. But it wasn't, _no never you are unworthy_.

"I have told you before. And evidently I will be forced to keep repeating myself as long as you insist upon behaving like a child. There is no need for you to seek out your destiny. It will come to you."

Balinor was still frustrated and dissatisfied and impatient. When he'd ventured forth from his cave in Merendra, he'd thought – well, he'd determined to free Kilgarrah and right his wrongs of the past, or die trying. But evidently the great dragon was more content than he, to trade one solitary cave for another. As long as it was not beneath Uther's citadel, and there were no chains restricting flight – but they were so far from anyone with any kind of ability to affect any kind of change…

"And Hunith?" he couldn't help insisting.

"She is not important to your destiny any longer." Kilgarrah gave a shudder that unfurled his wings, and launched himself off the side of the mountain as the first light of the sun shot over the horizon.

Balinor slumped back, knowing the dragon would circle and soar and dive and climb and glide for hours, never really going anywhere, but beyond Balinor's reach unless he _commanded_.

"Damn scaly… beast," he muttered.

…..*….. …..*….. …..*….. …..*….. …..*…..

Gwaine didn't know quite what to say, standing at the mouth of the cave, hands on his hips, listening to the trickle of the stream and watching Merlin poke through the meagre belongings scattered through the interior. He breathed; it was marginally cooler here surrounded by rock and earth than under the thick green canopy of the forest while summer expired reluctantly toward autumn.

"For what it's worth," he offered. "I'm sorry."

Merlin grunted, abandoning a small table fashioned of lashed branches to inspect a natural shelf angling across one wall.

"I didn't really expect him to be here," the prince of Caerleon said absently, his thoughts otherwise occupied. "There's no space for a dragon anywhere near – it's thick forests and villages. Not that a great dragon needs a minder, exactly, I just thought… they might stick together, after escaping Camelot."

Gwaine grunted. No lie, he'd been anticipating meeting the man also. Curious if Balinor remembered him, as a very small child. Curious to talk to someone who'd known his father as a friend.

"But you're still disappointed," he commented.

"It was logical to start here," Merlin told him, moving away toward a darker corner and a bedframe. "I'd say no one's been here for a couple of years – maybe since he left to go to Camelot to free the dragon. But it wasn't – entirely – a waste of time."

"How do you mean?" Gwaine asked, crossing his arms over his chest.

Merlin turned and passed him, head down so he could watch his footing on the rocks and over the stream, picking his way back to their horses – evidently finished in the cave, and taking nothing with him. "Well… there was a line for laundry. Candle stubs on the shelves. Space for more than one set of dishes, and all those little pots with herbs growing in."

"Yeah?" Gwaine could infer from those details as well as the next man, but he left it to the son of the cave's inhabitant.

"Means he kept the place light and clean," Merlin said. "He was alone, but it was a home. Furniture and cooking, candle-making, medicine maybe. I bet if we took some time to scout the area, we'd find traps and nets and maybe even some evidence of cultivation."

"And the man at the tavern knew him," Gwaine added.

Dirty little place, isolated and suspicious of outsiders, but they'd easily taken Gwaine and Merlin for men like them – peasants and ruffians. And Gwaine had been impressed with the prince all over again, able to make himself comfortable and companionable with men like that – Caerleon warriors without the warrior part, Gwaine supposed.

"My mother will be disappointed, though," Merlin told Gwaine over his shoulder, retrieving his reins and swinging up to his saddle.

"Can't really blame her," Gwaine agreed, mounting and directing his horse to follow Merlin's gelding.

He agreed with Merlin's assessment of the area around the cave as well, deserted and unoccupied for quite some time. By unspoken consent, they were going to spend as little time as possible in this corner of what was still considered Cenred's kingdom, through lack of claim by anyone else. Though no one really worried about discovery or Merlin's safety; traveling swift and undistinguished was night and day difference to being captured identified by the Pendragon prince and the knights of Camelot, and he'd come through that victorious. But he also understood Merlin's need to push on to the next step of his quest.

"It's north to the mountains, then?" he added.

"Not immediately." Merlin leaned to avoid a low-hanging branch in their path – and a moment later, Gwaine copied the movement. "I told you Alator wrote me back that dragonkind traditionally enjoyed the height and solitude of mountainous regions – but I was looking at the map again and I think I'll start at the western end of the range. Rather than heading straight north and striking the White Mountains somewhere in the middle, and having to decide which way to go – east or west. Ealdor's not far from there, either, if he thought to go there…"

He glanced back to see that Gwaine was following his logic. Gwaine nodded, hiding his cringe for the thought of the hermit-dragonlord finding the wreckage of the village where he'd left a young wife alone; of course Merlin would have thought of that also. He was too far and Merlin's glance too quick for him to truly gauge the prince's mood, with both of them a-horseback. Not perfectly cheerful, though of course he wouldn't be, under the circumstances. Disappointed, as Gwaine guessed, but concealing just how much. At least not troubled over implications of the empty cave; still optimistic over the outcome of his quest.

"That way," Merlin continued, urging his mount from a walk into a jog. "We swing back around, close enough to stop by Beckon Cove for a night. And my mother worries a little less."

Gwaine grunted in agreement. He could not imagine the anxiety of his own mother, learning that his father was alive in hiding, somewhere. But his mother, what he remembered of her, had not been very much like Hunith at all. She'd been quiet – not the serene sort of quiet that Merlin's mother had, nor the shy quiet of the new princess of Caerleon. A tense, resentful silence – which made more sense to him, now, knowing that they'd come from Camelot. The rough, dirty, drafty hall of his childhood was nothing like the white stone of Camelot's citadel, nor the people similar, at all.

It suddenly occurred to him that his mother hadn't had any friends, in Caerleon. Maybe that was why she'd kept his sister constantly at her side, training and correcting, and he knew Siura resented him for his comparative freedom and ability to befriend everyone from warrior to landholder to servant.

It was natural, since he was back in Caerleon on an almost-regular basis, that his thoughts would run sometimes to Orkan-broch and family. Now managed, he knew from a stray but rather pointed comment from Queen Annis, by his sister's husband.

As he'd expected. There had been talk of marriage contracts when he'd taken his father's sword to Beckon Cove the first time. That venture prompted in part by the thought of freeing Siura from an obligation to provide for them through such an alliance – personally pleasing or decidedly not – by doing so himself. In spite of the fact that his mother had scorned the idea and forbidden the attempt – and she'd been right, after all, about the outcome.

To distract himself from those unsettling thoughts, Gwaine directed another comment toward the back of his prince, riding ahead of him.

"You've another reason for veering back toward Beckon Cove, though, yeah?"

Merlin threw a genuine grin over his shoulder, the first of its kind since they'd entered Cenred's territory and neared the cave their goal. He said, mock-ignorant, "Whatever do you mean?"

"Your ally," Gwaine tossed back teasingly. "Arthur Pendragon of Camelot. He's supposed to be traveling through Caerleon one of these days, isn't he? Heading north as well?"

"That's what he said," Merlin answered.

Gwaine was satisfied that he'd managed to lighten his prince's spirits. "What luck."

"It's not luck," Merlin quipped sarcastically. "It's destiny."

Maybe it was destiny. But Gwaine decided, it was also irony.

The scouts on the wall had seen them approaching, so it was no surprise when Queen Annis – along with Hunith and Freya – met them in the bailey as they dismounted.

"Well?" Her Majesty demanded.

Hunith was silent, squeezing her hands together; obviously Balinor wasn't with them, but of course she'd hope to not hear bad news, either.

"We found the cave," Merlin answered, turning the reins over his gelding's forelock so he could trail the lead and meet them. Gwaine squinted for a stable-boy, doing the same. "It looked like no one had been there for a couple of years, at least." He reached around his mother in a reassuring hug, and Freya leaned against his side, twining an arm about his waist. Gwaine liked her a lot; she was just right for Merlin.

"Nothing else to report?" the queen demanded, crossing her arms.

Merlin gave her a grin, eyebrows lifted – no sign of the disappointment Gwaine suspected. "I'm heading out again in the morning?"

"North to the White Mountains," Gwaine added, nodding to confirm his intention of accompaniment.

"As to that," Annis said. "There's been a message for you."

Gwaine met her eyes a moment, expecting her to shift her gaze to Merlin – _message for you_ – but she didn't. Speaking to him.

"From Arthur?" he assumed.

"No." The queen's thin lips quirked in something like sympathetic amusement. "From Orkan-broch."

Gwaine stared blankly, unsure how he was supposed to react, ignoring the tug of the stable-boy taking the reins of his mount from his hand. He hadn't even know that his family was aware of his conditional return to Caerleon. Merlin relinquished his gelding's lead, moving a step closer in concerned interest.

"What-" Gwaine said. "What's-"

"Lady Doreynda has sent for you," the queen said. "A summons to attend upon her in Orkan-broch with all haste. And our prince is requested to use his influence to see that you obey."

Gwaine snorted, and Merlin failed to cover a smirk of his own.

"Evidently," Annis added, "rumor has traveled about your connection. And they remember you well."

"They want me to order him to visit his family? Or to bring him myself?" Merlin asked – lightly, but Gwaine felt he was being sensitive to the unusual situation.

Curious as well – that seemed to be one of the prince's defining traits – but he knew that Gwaine avoided answering those sorts of questions about his past. Merlin's family was different, situation and personalities, and though he might understand, he couldn't fully appreciate. Gwaine avoided the awkwardness of necessary explanation and ignored evaluation.

"The letter was addressed to me," Annis informed them. "There was a post-script I am not sure you were meant to be told, Gwaine – perhaps only an explanation for me, or for Merlin, to convince us of the nature of the urgency."

"Something happened," Gwaine's mouth said, shock falling over him like a wet sheet. It wasn't simply, bidding him present himself for long overdue reprimand.

"Your mother's health is failing," Annis said, as gently as she ever spoke. Hunith inhaled, eyes wide, and Freya made a noise of concern.

Gwaine's mouth said another word that he probably ought not have said in company with ladies – and these three, particularly. But he was turning before he could care, letting out a shrill whistle to signal the stable-boy to bring his horse back.

"You're leaving now?" Freya asked, surprised.

"You've been traveling hard these past few days anyway," Hunith added, frowning also. "Don't you think – dinner and a night's sleep in a bed-"

"There's at least three more hours of daylight," Gwaine said, mentally listing the supplies still in his saddlebags – sufficient, if he spent coin for a meal somewhere, and nobody minded travel-stained clothes on him when he arrived. "And reach Orkan-broch tomorrow."

"Do you want me to come?"

Merlin's question, clear and low and sincere, cut through rising dread and steadied and comforted him. This was what it meant to have friends.

"No," he said, and put his hand on his prince's shoulder. "No. I know you would, and never have a second thought over the time so spent, and I love you for that, my lord, but no. You have your own family to visit."

Merlin's smile tilted wryly. "That is so. If you're sure?"

"I am." Gwaine reached for the reins of his mount, back from the boy. "You enjoy your dinner, and your bed-"

Freya, slightly behind her young husband, glanced up at him and blushed, though the two older women ignored the implications of Gwaine's subtle teasing.

"And I will meet you back here someday soon, I hope."

"Stay, if they need you to," Merlin told him, reaching. "I shall suffer the loneliness and boredom of my quest by myself."

Gwaine gripped his wrist gladly and maybe a bit desperately, before turning to creak his bones and muscles back into place on the contoured leather. Though Merlin was home now, even temporarily, it seemed Gwaine was not; he still had miles to go before he found a place to lay his head for the night.

 _Damn…_

At long last, he was going home.

 **A/N: So I've started the sequel. I'm going to be adding some pov's, but I'll start each section with the name of the character to minimize confusion, and right now I'm not planning on any flashbacks…**

 **Hope you enjoy! I can't promise an updating schedule, only that I won't ever abandon a fic except in cases of death or dismemberment. Which I probably mean more seriously than it sounds…**

 **Also, this chapter is probably a bit short for what they're going to turn out to be – but next chapter, Merlin &Arthur!**


	2. Hello and Farewell

**Chapter 2: Hello and Farewell**

Arthur camped half a league on Camelot's side of the border with Caerleon, so that by dawn of the next day he was at the river's edge, resting in his saddle, watching.

Not so much the ford and footing – for it was past midsummer and drying, dying down and running lower than at other times, to judge by the foot or so of dry bare bank below the grassline. But rather, he scrutinized the land of Caerleon beyond, and found himself hesitating.

Perhaps he ought to have sidetracked half a day to the village where Gwaine resided when he wasn't employed by Arthur or by Merlin. But pride balked at seeking company for company's sake – though at this precise moment he would have been glad to have a friend at his back.

Alone and unaided.

It sounded lofty and noble and obvious in Camelot. Surrounded by servants and guards and courtiers, with a soft bed aired and straightened for him, meals delivered and clothes laundered. Of course he was no stranger to the hardships of overnight patrols – not after the year spent searching for Morgana – but.

Alone. And unaided.

Which meant no one to say, _but Sire_. Have you noticed this, or thought about that. No one to see anything he might have missed, no one to defend his back if a fight found him. He rode without insignia, in plain rough clothing so as to remain unrecognized and there was safety for him in anonymity, but it was by no means definite.

And, he'd never actually ventured beyond Camelot's accepted borders. Even accompanied and supported. And this was _Caerleon_.

 _Of course!_ Merlin had exclaimed to his request, absolutely confident. Safe passage over Caerleon lands personally guaranteed by the prince. _Come to Beckon Cove first, please, you'd be most welcome._

Arthur's mount shifted underneath him, impatient and probably picking up on Arthur's uneasiness.

Because hadn't he given Merlin assurances, when he brought the younger prince to Camelot? Under far different circumstances, of course, but the king of Caerleon could easily view Arthur the way Uther had viewed Merlin - with lifelong and intrinsic enmity. Would Merlin's king honor his word any better than Arthur's father had honored his?

He'd dare just about anything on Merlin's honor. But was that limited or absolute, in Caerleon?

There were dangers and risks on these quests, there were meant to be, to prove the mettle of a man, a knight, and especially a future king. But if anything happened to Arthur – and Caerleon was only the first step, the first risk – even if it was just a delay in weather or success, or illness, accident, losses…

Leon and Ectyr were dependable. The council was solid, the structure of Camelot stable. But King Uther was incapable of managing even minor crises, and if any of their enemies had been plotting or planning or awaiting an opportunity…

This might be it.

If something happened to Arthur, what would happen to Camelot? The quest was meant to prove Arthur's worth – but what if it proved him unworthy? And Camelot fell, and all his people suffered?

Arthur sighed.

Really, what choice did he have. Being a warrior, and a king, was about risking everything for duty, making sacrifices, even to the point of one's own life. If he wasn't worthy, Camelot must look to another.

Gathering his reins, he nudged his mount down into the water and crossed – long slender legs whooshing unconcernedly strong through the current, hard hooves confident on the riverbed footing beneath. No one was waiting for him, though he remembered Gwaine's telling of Merlin's homecoming.

He had no sense of being watched or followed – though it wasn't two hours before he realized the truth behind Merlin's sarcastic complaints about Camelot's comparative prosperity.

The ground was rocky, the hills abrupt and sheer, the grass sparse and the trees scrubby and rare. He caught sight of three separate herds of goats, over the course of the day, and rode within sight of one settlement that appeared to be built into cliff-caves. He was watched in silent wariness, neither hailed nor approached as he would have been in any one of Camelot's villages.

Past midafternoon, he came laboring over a rise, leading his mount to rest and spare it but keep moving, and was rewarded with his first view of Beckon Cove.

Brief sparkle of the bay the fortress was named for, beyond a fold of land to the southwest, and there was the faintest hint of brine on the air, if he paid attention to it. The encircling wall wandered the contours of the capital's stronghold, now up and now down, pulling inward and bulging outward – no perfectly rounded shape if looked down upon from the vantage of the round-tower. The hill it was built on and probably down into lifted the visible base of the tower above the top of the wall, though that perspective would probably shift as he came closer, and all the stone of a dark gray immediately more forbidding and gloomy than the light tone of Camelot's citadel walls.

And thinking of coming closer-

He felt the tremble of hoofbeats in the stony ground underfoot before he saw them, three horsemen galloping up the rise from a curve in the land to his left, in sight and upon him in seconds.

Arthur kept his right hand from the sword-hilt at his saddle with an effort. Though the warriors of Caerleon were thoughtless and headstrong in their brutality, he didn't think they were actually stupid. They knew he'd see them coming – it was intimidation, not ambush – and he stood still, letting them dance their mounts around him.

All three veiled. Leather-and-metal armor, two with broad-headed axes over their shoulders and the third with a sword and two daggers in his belt. Arthur shifted to keep track of them – which was only good sense, not edginess prompted by their show of aggression.

The one with the sword leaned from his saddle to touch the pommel of Arthur's sword with one grubby forefinger, then wheeled his mount to face the distant fortress.

"You must favor your mother's people, boy," he rasped. He lifted his hand to drag the veiling material down from his face, revealing the gray-and-white beard of a man well into his middle years. "You look nothing like your father. Fortune smiles on you, there."

Arthur was amused and relieved, as the tension shifted. He'd been accepted and allowed – but now tested, maybe. "Your Majesty," he said.

"Mount up," the king of Caerleon ordered abruptly. "I'm not waiting for you to walk to my hall at that pace."

Arthur obeyed without hurry, though the other two warriors remained silent and veiled, and maneuvered their horses restively and without regard for position or formation.

"I am surprised to see you dare come here alone," the king remarked, setting their pace at a fast walk. That allowed for conversation while still requiring attention to horse and trail that would not leave silences awkward.

"I believe Merlin is the sort to keep promises," Arthur answered, expecting something like the sarcastic barbs Merlin had flung his way in the early days in their friendship. He was a bit curious himself to see if their insults could actually goad him to lose his temper, if he was actively guarding himself against that.

"He is," the king said bluntly. "So are we all."

"I don't remember promising Uther to slaughter his son if he ever set foot on Caerleon land," one of the warriors spoke up contemplatively.

"Lucky for me, then," Arthur said – and was rewarded with a grunt of amusement from the king and snickers from the other two.

"Question for you, Pendragon," spoke the warrior who'd taken position behind the king, who rode half a horse-length ahead of Arthur and to his left. "You promised protection to our prince upon his surrender – and yet he returned to us with new scars."

The king sent Arthur a sideways glance from the corner of his eye and he had no idea what the best answer might be. Honesty – levity – apology? What had Merlin told them, and what interpretation might they have spun from his words?

"That is true," Arthur said mildly. "It was he who protected me, on that occasion."

The king gave him a longer look as if he expected more, and Arthur simply met his gaze. Then the older man inhaled and straightened, facing the fortress they were nearing. "Mmph. He said it was his choice to join that battle."

"He saved many innocent lives," Arthur added.

One of the warriors mumbled something derogatory-sounding, that included the words _innocent_ and _Camelot_. Arthur ignored him.

"You carry his sword," the king observed.

Arthur couldn't entirely stop his smile. And corrected evenly, "I carry _my_ sword. All thanks to Merlin for the gift."

"He swears you are unlike your father, and will never wield it wrongly."

For the love of Camelot, how was he to respond to that? More promises? A wiser demur? Affront for his father's sake, or gratitude for his own?

He did want to be like his father – in all ways save one. But no one protected Arthur from making making mistakes – not on this quest, and not back in Camelot. And most mistakes, Arthur was sure, could not be spied in advance, only regretted once past.

But it seemed silence was an acceptable answer. The king continued, "He will be glad to welcome you. You aren't unexpected – Caerleon is prepared to demonstrate hospitality tonight."

"Oh, hells," Arthur said without thinking.

That was also a highly acceptable response – one of the warriors cackled aloud while the other muffled a chuckle, and he could swear the king bit his lip so as not to smile.

So instead of retracting, Arthur ventured on. "Merlin's at Beckon Cove, then? I expected he'd be searching for his father, still – has he been successful, or delayed, perhaps?"

"You can ask him," the king responded shortly – but without offense.

Arthur decided to be satisfied with the news that he was to see his friend – a glad surprise – rather than just pass through his kingdom and stay a night at his home.

…..*….. …..*….. …..*….. …..*….. …..*…..

Freya slipped noiselessly into the bedchamber she and Merlin shared.

The room his mother had occupied as nursemaid during his childhood had been converted into a dressing room for her – still overwhelming, when all her life she'd been happy to have a single change of clothes for the sake of cleanliness – and there was no door between, only a narrow archway and a corner to break the line of sight.

The candles weren't lit yet, though the sun was setting and their room was on the east of the tower, and all was silent and still. Freya took a few moments to light a few strategically placed candles before rustling the golden silk of her new dress closer to the bedside.

Merlin hadn't stirred. He was sprawled cross-wise over the coverlet of their bed, head just below his pillow and his feet where her feet would go when they shared. Shirtless and barefoot, and Freya took another moment to admire the candlelight playing over the bare skin of his back and arms – slope and shadow, smooth and warm and strong.

She loved him. She loved loving him, but today it hurt to know that he was disappointed. Cheerful and optimistic about other options to explore in searching for his father, and logical about the odds against swift success in Merendra, and _cheerful_ , but. Still disappointed.

Reaching out, she laid a hand over his shoulder-blade and drew it down his waist. "Merlin."

He grumbled in the back of his throat and turned his head away from her without opening his eyes, mussing his hair against the bedcover.

She grinned to herself, and hiked her skirts. Well, she wanted to cheer him up, didn't she? Carefully she crawled onto the bed, straddling his hips and spreading her body atop his, gradually releasing all of her weight, and burrowed slightly into his pillow to find his ear.

"Mer-lin…"

He grunted again, but she could tell he was waking up, and not at all opposed to their relative positions. She squirmed a little, pressing air from his lungs, til she could take the lobe of his ear between her teeth and flick it with her tongue.

His body tightened in reaction, though he made no move, and his inhalation lifted her about an inch. She snickered breathlessly into his ear, feeling him shiver and muffle a gasp.

"Are you awake now?"

He shifted a bit more to be able to speak clearly, facedown in the mattress and blankets. "Do I have a good reason to be?"

She wriggled some more, just to enjoy the position of dominance. "Yes. You do."

He tried to turn over, and she didn't let him dump her off, supporting her weight on her hands as his shoulders twisted but his hips didn't. He was smiling as he found her gaze, loose-lipped and heavy-lidded and happy to let her make him happy. He said, "Hello."

She leaned down and kissed his mouth, but when his fingers ventured into her hair, she pulled back with a warning sound.

His eyes took in the jewels Maegden had wound into her hair and the unfamiliar silk of the gown, confused. He twisted a little more to lay his shoulders flat, running his fingers up her sleeves before slipping them inwards to her ribs and the smooth material fitted close to her skin. "Why are you wearing this?"

She repressed a shiver, already touching him too intimately with her legs to either side of his. "We have company. Their Majesties have ordered a feast."

Merlin groaned, tipping his head back even as his fingers came to rest possessively on her hips. "I have a better idea," he said, shifting his position and trying to coax her to rest all of her weight on his body again. His voice lowered and took on a husky note that sent ripples of anticipation tingling along her veins. "Why don't you take this off and we'll forget about dinner? We can sneak down to the kitchen later, when everyone else is abed, and beg pardon for our absence in the morning?"

She grinned, feeling a blush color her cheeks to imagine the knowing smirks that would result at breakfast, and not quite able to meet Merlin's eyes, husband or not. Beneath the merry twinkle was a deep and unguarded warmth that stole her breath.

"I can't do that," she declared, lowering and shaking her head at once so that her curls brushed his bare skin. She did want to rest down onto him, rubbing her cheeks against the smooth muscle of his chest. "He would never forgive me."

"He who?" Merlin complained, releasing her hips to try for more sensitive areas that she knew from experience would drive all other thoughts right out of her mind. He knew that, too. "The king?"

"The prince," she returned, taking her chance the moment his grip eased, moving back from him.

He sat up, letting bent knees drop lazily to the mattress, puzzlement on his face again – maybe her proximity made it hard for him to think clearly, too. "The prince?"

"Of Camelot," she added, leaving the bed and retreating to one of the seats left pulled out from the table. A vantage point, and if she was lucky, he wouldn't realize it. This time.

"Arthur's here?" Merlin exclaimed, his smile and the light in his eyes _changing_ – but no less irresistible, to her. He scrambled forward, almost tripping to get off the bed, and strode barefoot across the room to the wardrobe, trousers hanging low from his hips.

"The queen wanted to let you sleep," Freya told him, watching as he yanked the wardrobe open and chose quickly – a plain linen shirt of the lightest yellow, and a brocade tunic of a brown just slightly deeper than his trousers. "But Arthur will probably thank you to rescue him from the king's attention."

"Glares and silences," Merlin guessed.

Freya only hummed agreement, reveling in the sight of her husband dressing himself, moving swiftly and with purpose and as if entirely unaware of her regard. Smooth pale skin, a scattering of dark hairs, lean muscle and long limbs…

He was the best man in the kingdom, and he was hers. Good fortune sometimes took her breath away, when she remembered those endless hours in Halig's cage-cart, wishing for death and emptied of anything resembling hope – and that had been a relief to what had come before. It sometimes made her uneasy, as if such happiness could not last, burning bright and fast – but rather than worry over what she could not control, she chose to enjoy what she'd been given while she had it.

"The queen is going to give me archery lessons while you're gone," she mentioned, as Merlin lifted his boot to the seat of a nearby chair to tighten the lacing.

He made a pleased noise; he was just too far away for her to card her fingers into his hair as he bent, even if she leaned. "That'll be fun," he said. "Won't it? Are you looking forward to it?"

"Not especially," she said honestly, as he straightened to switch feet. "She's very strong-"

"So are you," Merlin said immediately; it made her smile.

"I mean to draw the bow and aim and shoot," she said. "I'll be embarrassed, and sore…"

He grinned, pulling her up from her seat by the hand, leading her to the door. "Trust me, it cannot possibly be any worse than what they put me through when I was a boy."

Merlin had accepted Their Majesties' choice of him as heir in spite of deep and lingering doubt in himself, she'd glimpsed enough of that in her earliest years in Beckon Cove to know. And she'd accepted his choice of her as his queen in much the same way. She tried every day to make him her example – to hold her head up and smile cheerfully and try again, however inadequate she felt.

"And look at you now," she agreed facetiously, following him down the hall, down the stair.

He snickered at her sarcasm, nodding, and pulled her hand tight through his elbow against his ribs as they entered the busy hall.

…..*….. …..*….. …..*….. …..*….. …..*…..

The main chamber where all such feasts and large meetings were held was a confusion of arrangement. Trestle tables and benches had been brought from the sides to the center of the room, and platters and tableware were already being laid, as well as initial dishes requiring minimal preparation. Servants moved between groups of warriors who were taking advantage of the ready food and drink and the expectation of an evening spent in revelry.

"Well, it's one way of ensuring that the warriors remember Arthur's visit as a positive thing," Merlin murmured to Freya, halting to search for a glimpse of guest or hosts – turning to see that they hadn't actually passed the other three royals in the moving crowd.

Freya made a mournful noise. "Oh, I bet they're going crazy in the bakehouse."

He grinned down at her; she looked lovely and delicately regal in the gifted silk gown. "Bet you're happy you don't have to work when we have a feast, anymore."

"If it wasn't for Arthur, I'd miss the excuse to avoid all this," she claimed, tilting her head and one eyebrow at him.

Which reminded him of the excuse he'd offered her, back in their bedroom – _take_ _off the dress_ – and he opened his mouth to remind her of it, but she interrupted, looking past his shoulder.

"There they are…"

He spun, already moving, her hand secure in his. Behind the short table lifted to the dais in front of the high-backed chairs used for official receptions, Thurston glowered comfortably, overseeing the room as Annis spoke past him to their guest.

Merlin forgave himself for not spotting Arthur immediately. The prince of Camelot wore no obvious armor, no glittering chainmail, no scarlet and no golden dragon. He was simply clad, a soft hide vest hanging open over a bleached tunic, dark trousers and sturdy boots.

And the sword at his hip.

"Oh, good, you brought it," Merlin blurted, unintentionally interrupting the queen and Prince Arthur, in place of a more suitable or decorous greeting. And a year ago it might have discomfited him more. He grinned at Arthur's raised brow. "I did wonder if you would. I mean, it's only manners to accept a gift and say thank you, but magic is still banned in Camelot."

"Well," Arthur said, trying not to smile and not quite succeeding. "I'm not in Camelot anymore, am I?"

Merlin stepped up to the edge of the dais, reaching across the table to clasp Arthur's forearm. "Welcome to Beckon Cove. I'm glad you've come."

"Thank you." Arthur aimed a reserved smile past Merlin's shoulder. "My lady."

Freya ducked her head in an abbreviated curtsy of shy pleasure as Merlin stepped back down to her side. "Sire."

"And now that the formalities are out of the way, we can all use each other's given names," Merlin suggested, shepherding his wife around the end of the table to join Arthur more properly.

The prince regent glanced a _please excuse me?_ sort of look at Queen Annis, who smiled wryly and turned away. The king shifted his weight and glared in a different direction, ignoring both of them, and Arthur stepped to meet Merlin and Freya with only a moment's hesitation.

"Standing still more comfortable after riding all day?" Merlin guessed.

Up close, Arthur looked well. Serious cast to his expression – this quest thing the knights of Camelot did wasn't for _fun_ , after all – but no shadows in his eyes, no pinch to his mouth, no sag in his shoulders.

"For you also?" Arthur returned, leaning a forearm negligently over the back of one of the seats positioned for royal use. "I didn't expect to see you here – you haven't left yet, to find your father?"

Merlin hadn't gotten a chance to admit pertinent and significant details in a more leisurely way to Freya, so he condensed the story of his and Gwaine's trip to Merendra with the same few sentences he'd given Queen Annis and his mother, finishing with the reason for Gwaine's absence and his intention of riding north to the western edge of the range of the White Mountains.

"After what we did in the Forest of Essetir this spring," he said, referring to the creatures that had plagued Camelot in their various ways, and the portals he'd opened magically to send them back to their realms of origin. "I have a feeling I'll be able to tell when I'm nearing the dragon. I expect Balinor will be with him."

He felt Freya's eyes on him. No one had ever given the dragon a definite gender that he knew of, but _he_ felt right to Merlin. And he found that he hesitated to say the word _father_ in reference to the dragonlord. Not til he was sure. Just in case hopes and expectations were disappointed.

"Oh," Arthur said – a bit too blankly. "And you're – leaving in the morning?"

"First light," Merlin said. "Or dawn, if first light feels too early." With Freya's hand tucked comfortably in his, it felt already like first light would be too early. He'd missed his wife after three days – and who knew how many it would be this time, before he was home again? "Why?"

Arthur took a deep breath, considering. Then, with a shrug, admitted, "That is the road I will be traveling as well."

"Is it really?" Merlin said, pleased. "Well, perhaps I won't have to suffer loneliness and boredom, after all."

"Just because," Arthur said, his brows drawing down, "we ride the same road at the same time in the same direction, does _not_ mean that we travel together."

And Merlin realized, before reaction had a chance to be offended, and grinned. "Because you'll be _alone_ and _unaided_ , on your quest."

"I'm going to consider the two of you together," Freya informed him, softly but firmly. "I'm sure Hunith will as well. And if Gwen knew, she'd be pleased, also."

Merlin could see Arthur biting his tongue out of courtesy. "If I were not a married man," he interjected, teasingly, "I would say something here like, _women_."

Freya clicked her tongue disapprovingly – and to distract her, Merlin pulled out the chair that was hers at the high table.

"Keep an eye on your ale-cup," Merlin advised Arthur, preparing to take a seat on Freya's other side. "We brew it strong, here."

"That doesn't surprise me in the least," Arthur retorted, lowering himself into his chair.

The king, already slouched in his own place, banged his cup on the table in wordless command for the feast to begin, without any formalities.

"Say what you like about the worries of those left behind," Freya leaned to murmur in Merlin's ear. "I am glad he'll be with you."

The worries of those left behind. And maybe part of Merlin's delight at this fortuitous turn of events was a relief that Arthur would not be traveling Caerleon at least, alone and beyond reach of aid. Not every lord or landholder of Caerleon was inclined to obey royal directive every time, and there was still resentment toward Camelot over their losses at Denaria and Fyrien.

It made him wonder briefly what reception Gwaine might face when he reached Orkan-broch.

…..*….. …..*….. …..*….. …..*….. …..*…..

Annis stood on the bottom step, surveying the bailey area in the silver-gray predawn. A few watchmen, a few servants beginning preparations for the day's meals and cleaning – and one young man checking details of his horse and his supplies, waiting.

Prince Arthur was up earlier than she'd expected, honestly, after the feast last night. Possibly Merlin had warned him about the ale; Thurston was still snoring heavily in their bed, she was sure.

"This spring," Hunith said softly beside her, attention directed to the same young man, "they made the best of a bad situation, and Merlin still suffered harm. I wonder if I should be worried more to know that Merlin is riding out with the Pendragon, or less?"

"Worry less," Annis advised, without examining the sentiment too closely for truth, or all the possibilities for mishap or misadventure for two young men on an open road, beyond the bounds of their kingdoms.

She had watched the two princes at the banquet – this time in the Caerleon stronghold, and as allies, if unofficial. She had seen Arthur smirk and she had seen Merlin laugh and she had seen both princes at separate times, lean over Freya to speak to the other in lower, more serious tones. She had seen a bond.

Would it survive the dangers of the road? Would either prince protect the other if it meant their own life, or would they abandon a comrade as an enemy so their waiting kingdom would not be left without an heir, descending in all likelihood into strife and unrest and potential war?

That remained to be seen. Destiny, perhaps. Moving in unforeseen ways, but always in the right direction, as Alator of the Catha had written to her, when Merlin had first been taken hostage by Camelot.

But a mother's worry would not change a thing – it would only make Hunith unhappy, and maybe distract-

"Merlin," Hunith said, turning a moment before Annis, at the sound of footsteps on the steps behind them. "Here you are – where's Freya? I thought she'd walk down with you."

Annis was reminded of another day, early this spring, when she'd sent her prince raiding with the assurance of his brilliance. He'd been nervous and apprehensive, burdened with responsibility – this morning his shoulders were straight, his eyes clear, his smile quick. He was dressed nearly the same as he had been that chill morning, months ago, but for the cloak which was rolled and bundled with the pack slung over his shoulder, next to the sword-hilt riding easily at his back.

She spoke before he could. "I would guess Freya said her farewell before Merlin left her bed."

Merlin's eyebrows – and the color high in his cheeks – rose at her insinuation. Hunith – as had been her habit since her son's wedding-day – placidly ignored the implication. Annis privately thought, when the young princess' body began to betray the results of her prince-husband's willing attentions, Hunith would not be so complacent, at the prospect of grandchildren.

"Oh, well, that's all right, then," Hunith said. "A bit too difficult for her to actually watch you ride away?"

Annis knew what she meant. There had been quite a few unimportant excursions – hunting trips, unofficial visits she had not been required to accompany – where she hadn't bothered to stand and wave as Thurston rode away. Though, always when danger was expected. Perhaps Freya trusted Merlin's safety to Arthur more than Hunith did, maybe because Hunith had been to Camelot and witnessed at least part of Merlin's ordeal there. Perhaps Hunith remembered saying farewell to her own young husband one day, and it became the last time she'd ever seen him. And she feared the same for her son; this time his journey had no definite destination or expectations of time spent before his return.

"Don't worry, Mother," Merlin was saying. "I'll be fine. I'll be better than fine, I'll be with Arthur."

"Unless Arthur leaves without you," Annis remarked, raising her voice intentionally. The prince of Camelot - swinging up to his saddle, handing his reins and adjusting his seat – was close enough to hear.

"That's all right, I could manage to catch up," Merlin said cheerfully, also intending his friend to hear. "I know this land better than he does, anyway."

Beyond Arthur, Annis spotted one of the turbaned warriors leading a saddled mount out from the stables – Merlin's gelding, if she had to make a guess at the distance. And Tythan, also.

She turned to Merlin, gathering him into an embrace that was uncomfortable, given his ring-studded breastplate, but his arms were gentle around her in response, if surprised. "Take care of yourself," she told him, not caring at all if she repeated or usurped Hunith's admonitions to their son. "You carry our good wishes, remember."

"Even though the king isn't here?" Merlin asked. There was a twinkle in his eye and a quirk at the corner of his smile – and Thurston hadn't seen him off to Merendra, either. "Is that because he can't or won't or doesn't approve of the errand, or because his confidence in my ability to accomplish it is so absolute?"

"Both," she told him, and thumped the center of his breastplate, over his heart, where the hidden symbol of his adoption and status hung from the chain around his neck. "Fight to discover your destiny."

"We love you," Hunith called after him, as he leaped down the last step and mounted his gelding before finding the stirrups with his boots.

"Finally," Arthur drawled sarcastically at him, prompting another grin.

"Fare you well also, my lord Pendragon," Annis said suddenly. "We wish you success and safety on your quest. Do you plan to return by this route?"

"I have not decided that far ahead, but – thank you," Arthur said, straightening as if slightly surprised at the sentiment from her. "I suppose we shall have to see what fate has in store."

Tythan had released Merlin's reins to his control, and stepped back from the horses. "Pendragon," he spoke up unexpectedly. "We are trusting our prince's protection to your custody once again."

"I will not forget," Arthur told him, with half of a smile. Raising one hand in a salute to them all, he wheeled his horse toward the gate.

"I will see you soon!" Merlin called, pulling his horse's head around to follow the older prince.

"What fate has in store," Hunith repeated, watching them trot away.

Beyond them at the wall, the gate-guards pushed open the doors. Annis thought about walking up on the walls to watch the two riders a while longer, and decided against it.

"Sometimes that is better than what we plan for ourselves," she said to Hunith. Perhaps a prince of Thuston's own blood would have been more like him, and the struggle to develop intelligence and instill morals would have been far more difficult; she couldn't imagine that the end result of a child of their own blood could have been a better prince, a better man, than young Merlin.

Hunith hummed, her eyes on her son as the two rode through the gate and beyond their sight. "Maybe, but I would have been happy with what I planned… Though it is probably true, Merlin never could have been a farmer. Too much of his father in him."

For good or ill, Annis thought, and maybe now they would find that out, in meeting and possibly befriending Balinor the dragonlord. And, "We shall see."


	3. Destination

**Chapter 3: Destination**

Arthur resisted the urge to look over his shoulder at the tower of Beckon Cove as it presumably receded into the distance behind them. Last night hadn't been as bad as he feared – the king was rough and curt but not antagonistic; the feast was noisy and disorderly but not offensive or violent. His room was comfortable, his needs met with courtesy.

"What was all that, then?" he asked Merlin, jogging along on his gelding, beside Arthur on the track. And in spite of the strictures of quest-completion, he wasn't displeased to have someone to talk to. "Their prince's protection is in my custody again?"

"Tythan was one of the men you spared when I surrendered," Merlin explained, glancing at him as if to check that he remembered. He didn't, actually, he wouldn't have recognized any of Merlin's men behind their hoods and hair. "He was also my trainer, growing up."

"Your weapons skills are a result of his teaching?" Arthur said, impressed in spite of himself.

"Was it different for you?" Merlin asked, with another glance. "The king was too busy – and too impatient, probably – to conduct my training himself. It was bad enough when he came to observe my progress – and worse still, to test it."

Arthur snorted, grimacing with dry humor.

Exactly so. It had been Sir Ectyr, for him – and many of those memories, sudden and paralyzing nerves when the king appeared at the side of the field, frowning in censure. It always made Arthur think and analyze and second-guess himself, when he should be relying on instinct and intuition. And then make mistakes.

"At least," Merlin added cheerfully, "you did not have your king demanding that you fight also with magic – and your letters-tutor insisting therein lay the way of corruption."

"Oh, no," Arthur returned. "My king would have agreed, fighting with magic was the very essence of corruption."

Merlin laughed out loud, a sound that pealed out over the noise of the horses' hooves on the stony ground, the creak and jingle of their tack. Whether or not it was the first moment of sunrise, it was the first moment Arthur was aware of the patina of direct daylight spreading over the landscape before them.

"You were late coming out this morning," Arthur commented. "I almost left without you." And Gwaine might've answered with something uncouth about a warm bed, and a warm girl…

"I'm glad you didn't," Merlin told him. "Beckon Cove might have welcomed you for my sake, but the same cannot be guaranteed of all Caerleon."

"And yet they let you ride alone and unaided?" Arthur said, fingering his reins. "From what Freya said last night, she was also glad you were going to have me along for protection."

"A word of advice," Merlin said, leaning toward him in his saddle with a confidential grin. "Marry Gwen as soon as you can. Then speak to me of a wife's concerns."

"She was wrong, then?" Arthur said curiously.

"You may not think it, but the people of Caerleon do have honor," Merlin said, squinting away to the newly-visible western horizon, over the bare, irregular hilltops. "When a noble travels with his men, it is for prestige, not protection. Prestige that can be added to or lost, in various altercations. If I traveled with a troop of men, it would be an invitation to every lord and landholder who wished to try me, to send his warriors."

"You're serious?" Arthur said, trying to temper surprise with skepticism. He would not deny that one or two of his nobles might be tempted to take advantage if presented with a situation where Arthur was within their control or vulnerable – and no one else knew, and nothing could be proven.

"Oh – not with death as the objective," Merlin hastily corrected. "We're barbarians, not murderers. Bruises and blood and broken bones, but we don't generally kill each other for sport or reputation – if it's to be warfare, it's declared openly, between armies. Traveling by myself means I could face single-combat challenges, but otherwise I can expect to be left alone."

"And beyond your borders?" Arthur asked, interested.

"Do you remember when Sir… Munt, was it? Tried to wake me that first morning in camp?"

Arthur huffed derisively. He'd seen his knight shove the toe of his boot into the sleeping prisoner's ribs just too late to reprimand him – but the reactive burst of magic tumbled Sir Munt halfway across the clearing, panicking all of them til they saw, that was all that had happened. Nothing more sinister like, Sir Munt's foot being turned to stone, or all his toes fused together, or every bone to his hip shattered or liquified.

But Merlin's magic wasn't cruel or vindictive, simply protective.

"I suppose I'm not surprised they let you ride across the countryside," he said. "You're magic. That means you're never alone or unaided, doesn't it?"

"Well, I'm not infallible," Merlin hedged.

Arthur pretended sarcastic shock. " _What_?"

Merlin twitched his reins and his horse veered, bumping heavily into Arthur's mount; Arthur laughed.

"What about you, then?" Merlin asked. "You never did say where you're heading or what you're after, only that your destination wasn't within Caerleon's borders, and your prize nothing we'd claim."

Well, it wasn't a secret in Camelot; Arthur had told the council, the morning after his vigil and his vision. Ectyr and Leon knew, also, and telling Merlin was different than telling the king and queen of Caerleon.

"Ismere," he said, shifting in his saddle and glancing at the land around with an eye toward comparing it to the map he carried in his head, to check they were still on-track. They'd probably end their day within Caerleon's borders, but in sight of the White Mountains to the east of Ismere, that was Merlin's destination.

Merlin tilted his head thoughtfully, his body rocking with the gait of his gelding. "Ismere was a Mercian stronghold, wasn't it, til they abandoned it to the raiders coming down the River Severn? It's no-man's land, now. Saxons use it, abandon it, fight over it, claim it, and move on again, trying to establish a foothold in Albion. Fighting our kingdoms, and each other – do you have any idea if it's empty, or inhabited now?"

"I don't believe it will matter," Arthur said. "What I seek is hidden below the fortress – if necessary I can disguise myself and sneak into tunnels or caves…"

Merlin threw him a look of dissatisfaction. "What are you looking for, then? If it's hidden or buried, it could take you months – years, even, and every day more dangerous."

"It's a key," Arthur told him, setting in jaw in preparation for the younger prince's responsive incredulity. "And I have reason to think that I will be guided to it."

Merlin didn't react immediately. And then, he only turned in his saddle to study Arthur with a gravity unusual in the younger prince. "If it is something you can tell me," he said, "I would be extremely interested to know how you decided upon this quest."

So Arthur told him, with each sentence expecting Merlin's grin-and-twinkle to mock him. The ceremonial cleansing, the white robe worn as a sole pure garment, the night spent kneeling alone in the hall before the gathered symbols of Camelot – the throne and banner, the shields and weapons of fallen knights and allies, other treasures so gained and displayed rather than safeguarded in the vaults.

But Merlin didn't so much as nudge his elbow and snicker about Arthur's thoughts straying to Gwen at any point of the long night. He rode in silence for uncounted paces. Then ventured – as if he expected Arthur to mock _him_ – "So it is, almost a religious thing?"

Arthur was startled. For all his father's insistence that the Old Religion – because of its reliance on magic – be stamped out, there yet remained some of the traditions, in the celebration of holidays, in superstitions, and in the Knights' Code.

"The vision – it comes from the gods, yes?" Merlin asked. "The Triple Goddess, the White Goddess… someone?"

"I don't know," Arthur said blankly, and it disturbed him.

"What did you see, actually?"

It wasn't hard to remember those images, superimposed over the dreary landscape before him. "I saw the tower, and recognized Ismere from scouts' drawings," he said. "There were windows lighted, but my attention was drawn to the base of the tower, and down. There was a glow as of moonlight, and someone said to me, _the key_ _is waiting, I am waiting to show you_ …"

"To show you what?" Merlin asked.

"I don't know," Arthur admitted again, reluctantly. "I blinked and I was back in Camelot's throne room." With a throbbing headache, too.

It unnerved him to think that it wasn't simply his subconscious, sifting through options and lighting on one as he dozed, kneeling. To think that some outside personage with the power over such things, had focused on him unawares, had put the images in his head and spoke the words.

"What do you believe?" he said to Merlin abruptly, before he could reconsider his words.

"About the gods?" Merlin lifted his chin, and inhaled. "My tutor taught me about the beliefs held by our ancestors, held by druids still today. I believe that I was born for a purpose, that my magic was given to me for a reason – much as you were taught that your birth carried significance and responsibility, I imagine."

Arthur let a smile pull his lips briefly. He had thought before on the similarities between himself and Merlin – unexpected, and unique.

"I know there's more to life and this world and magic, than I know. I respect the beliefs other men hold, powers beyond my grasp and comprehension, and possibly someday I might have a more personal experience, and believe." Merlin glanced at him with a self-deprecating grin. "Til then, I try to live with honor, even if I make mistakes. Do good where I can, protect the innocent, prosecute the guilty, fulfil my duty. So on and so on."

Arthur grunted, still not sure what he wanted to think about the fact and content of his vision.

"There are Seers," Merlin added. "People without any other form of magic. People to whom visions come, unsought. There are also artifacts and spells that have prophetic properties or effects. And people who can communicate over great distances, under the right conditions. I would say to be careful, but-"

"Your concern is overwhelming," Arthur said dryly.

"But I know that you know that already," Merlin finished, unoffended. Then cocked his head. "Incidentally, a key to what? A treasure chest?"

"The key to…" Arthur hesitated briefly, but he _trusted_ Merlin, after all. "All knowledge. Apparently."

Merlin's brows rose startled. "Did you see it? In your vision? An actual, metal key with handle and head?"

Just the glow, and the words echoing through his head. "No. Why?"

"Well…" Merlin twisted his reins between his fingers. "You know how they say _key_ metaphorically? The key to his success – the key to this campaign…"

"Yes?"

"What if it's not a key? I mean, not an object you can pick up and put in your saddlebags and bring back to Camelot?" Merlin watched him as they rode, leaning back for balance as their two horses picked their way down a steepish slope. "Does your council require that sort of proof of your success?"

"Usually." Arthur twitched his shoulders. "Sometimes there's a witness to a noble deed done… You know, I _was_ glad for your company, but now I'm not so sure. I'm definitely feeling a wet-blanket effect."

"Oh." Merlin straightened, frowning at the countryside around them in a cursory glance. "I'm sorry, that wasn't my intention. I think, if I was you, I should conclude that… the symbolic preparation of your body, heart, and mind for this vision would protect you from any force intending you harm. And you should trust the vision is meant for good, ultimately, whatever obstacles you face. Perhaps the key can be written down, and so shown to your council."

Arthur shook his head at Merlin's hopeful smile. And if he, with all his knowledge of and access to the cryptic and arcane, still chose to be optimistic in the face of future uncertainty, if he deliberately befriended and trusted and reassured an enemy, Arthur supposed he was encouraged, as a result.

"We shall have to separate tomorrow, past the border," he said. "I'll be sorry to lose you, wet blanket or not."

"Do you know," Merlin said, sounding inspired. "Dragons are meant to have prophetic abilities. Maybe if and when I find my father and the great dragon, they can give some insight into your key of knowledge. We could return to Beckon Cove by way of Ismere and _not_ aid you, as long as you _didn't_ need it."

Arthur snorted. "Of course I can't accept your offer," he said sardonically. "But you may travel as freely as I, in this kingdom and beyond. I can't prevent you from going where you wish."

"That is true." Merlin looked pleased. But it was only moments later that he asked, " _All_ knowledge? Would you really want a key to _all_ knowledge? What would you do with something like that?"

" _Mer_ lin," Arthur sighed, feeling exasperation.

"So I talk." Merlin shrugged, unrepentant. "Maybe I'm happy not to be alone, but to have someone to talk to, also."

"Clearly," Arthur shot back.

"I imagine it might be something like my magic," Merlin continued undeterred, and Arthur rolled his eyes. "Alator taught me that, too. That I shouldn't do something just because I can, because there are always unforeseen consequences. Limitless knowledge might be similar to limitless magic, and a king who has access to that…"

"It would be a temptation to use it carelessly or wrongly." Arthur inhaled deeply, and let it out again. He shook his head over the puzzle that Merlin was – inclined and guided toward enmity and conquest, still he stood firm on _magic isn't supposed to be used like that_ , to the benefit of Arthur and Camelot. "Perhaps I'd like an answer to a question or two, but honestly I had intended to store it in our vaults as another magical curiosity to be wary of."

Merlin considered, and nodded approvingly. Then added incorrigibly, "Except it might not be a _thing_ you can store in a vault…"

Arthur growled, pressing his heels to his horse's flanks to signal a faster pace. Let Merlin take that hint, if he would.

Merlin's complaint followed him on the wind. " _Ar_ thur!"

…..*….. …..*….. …..*….. …..*….. …..*…..

Gwaine rode slowly down the track to Orkan-broch, expecting hidden sentries and giving them no reason to suspect his motives. He'd given up the right to display the crest of his father and their estate, after all, except for the ring he wore around his neck.

The stockade and the roundhouse nestled in the heart of one of Caerleon's only woods – composed of old, gnarled trees that bit back at woodcutters' saws, that clogged and dammed the river when they were floated to the mill, and warped once they were split. Orkan-broch's other industry was wool, and there was evidence of flocks having grazed and scavenged to either side of the path as Gwaine walked his mare in a leisurely manner the last mile or so.

Unfamiliarity lay around him like new clothes on the frame of an old friend. The trees were taller and thicker, the river's bends and banks disguised. And when he reached the stockade walls, they seemed shorter and thinner than before.

The gate stood open and he was let pass without challenge, though there were armed guards who eyed him, marking the presence of the sword at his hip though it would require closer scrutiny to identify it as the property of the estate.

There to the left the furnaces of the metal-worker. There to the right the sheds for spinning and weaving. Children of both genders chased a gaggle of geese across his path – or the ornery birds chased the children, perhaps. He remembered such terrors of his own infancy fondly, now.

Closer to the hall, the stables and storehouses. One or two workers – then four or five – stopped to watch him with increasing curiosity, as his business didn't divert, but took him right to the steps and covered front gallery of the largest building within Orkan-broch's walls, the twin-storied great hall. Residence and receiving chamber of all petitioners and guests, where Gwaine's father had lounged in a fur-padded chair, watching meat roast and ale flow, welcoming friends and bellowing orders. Beyond it would be individual huts for the workers, and there, just a glimpse to the far side, the open lawn where the warriors exercised, training and sparring. Where Gwaine first touched – and lost – the sword at his hip.

Someone had run to carry word of his arrival. A large man – not tall but round in a solid way – stood at the top of the steps, his hands on his hips. Deep lines carved a fleshy face into disapproval, and gray hair was combed lankly down from the top of his head, over his brow and the tips of large ears. His clothing, however, was clean and fine, boots to trousers with unmarked knees, wide tooled belt over blouse and tunic under an embroidered jacket, the skirts of which were shifted behind him by his fists digging into his sides.

Gwaine halted, and made the decision to dismount. He came here not in arrogance to declare his identity and claim his inheritance belatedly, but only as a prodigal son to a sick mother.

"I am Gwaine, son of Geart," he told the man – if he hadn't already guessed. "I have come at the request of Lady Doreynda?"

"Geart's son," the man said heavily, studying him. Then nodded, and descended one step at a time til he stood on even ground with Gwaine. "I can see it. Though there is something of your mother about your eyes. Your sister's, also."

"Lord Myles," Gwaine guessed.

The older man nodded again, unsurprised to be known. "Their Majesties have acquainted you with our situation?"

"Queen Annis mentioned." Gwaine studied him in return, reaching back in memory as he had done at the time of his conversation with the queen, but unable to match the face of the man before him to any one of a dozen, hazy in childhood recollection.

Myles was the second son of a neighboring noble, disinclined to earn his way with his sword, but inheriting nothing but name and blood from his own father. Gwaine supposed that his mother had been relieved to marry her daughter to this landless – swordless - second son, and keep the estate in the family. Rather than relinquish it to whomever the king awarded it to – a prize for a warrior who'd distinguished himself for the first time and had no land of his own, maybe.

"Orkan-broch is mine," Myles said unemotionally. "Over ten years you've been gone, they thought you dead. Mine the work, the worry, the toil to make this place prosper."

Each word set Gwaine's teeth on edge. As a boy he'd been excited to learn the sword, eager for the chance to prove himself, to join the warriors at the king's capital when he was old and skillful enough. He'd been obstinate about all other lessons, impatient and resistant, teasing and tricking and exasperating his way out of them, happy to leave that sort of education to his sister as often as he could. Secure in the belief that his father would manage the estate til he was a very old man, leaving Gwaine free to pursue adventure and glory.

He had shirked the sort of responsibility that Arthur and Merlin willingly shouldered, and he deserved none of the reward of comfort and repose.

And he couldn't bring himself to wish it had been otherwise. He'd seen the world. He'd fought to make his own way in it, he'd bled and suffered and dared and won and lost again. It was a crazy, mixed-up, mercenary life – and it had taken him to Camelot where the prince of Caerleon slept in a cell. It had taken him to a mystic valley and a battle with witches and monsters and enemies who were friends. It was unique; it was his.

He smiled. "Orkan-broch is yours and welcome, and I thank you sincerely for your work to care for my family." As long as Siura was content, and his mother comfortable, else he and Myles would have… words.

Myles' eyebrows lowered. "Then you don't seek to ingratiate yourself to Their Majesties – to Prince Merlin – in an attempt to recover your father's property."

Gwaine shifted, laying his left hand carefully – reverently – on the hilt of his father's sword in his belt. "This is all of my father's property I need. I took a chance as a boy and I lost, and in a moment of pride threw the rest away. I ingratiate myself to no man, and the nature of my service to our prince is ever his to define."

"Have you a wife or sons?" Myles demanded bluntly.

"I have not. And if you'd like me to put my name to paper renouncing any claim I might have on Orkan-broch, I will do so. I am here now only to answer my mother's summons, you have my word."

"We'll see what that's worth," Myles grumbled, but Gwaine was distracted by the appearance of a woman at the open doorway of the hall.

She wore a scarf over her hair and an apron over a dress of plain dark blue and she was more substantial than Annis or Hunith, though not bulky. Her lips were pressed together and her eyes flashed and he knew the lines of her brows and cheekbones and the shape of her chin.

"Siura," he said, feeling a mix of gladness and trepidation and relief and concern and shame, all at once. She'd looked down on him just so, countless times in his childhood when he was late or his clothing damaged or some misdeed had been reported. He'd loved her and resented her and failed her and missed her and wished her well and wished never to see her again.

She swept forward, descending the stairs without ever breaking the contact of their gaze.

"Gwaine," she said, and her voice trembled around a strength of purpose. "You look just like our father."

Then she slapped him. It was hard and it was unexpected and he blinked darkness to sparkles of light to a view of the muddy lane leading past the hall.

"You ran away," she said, in the very same tone. Emotion held to a high standard of control, and the flash of her eyes was unshed tears. He was taller than she was, now. "You stole our father's sword and you ran away and we heard _nothing_ from you."

"Yes," Gwaine said. "There's – rather a lot of explanation there, if you'd care to-"

"Excuses," Siura flung at him. Myles crossed his arms over his chest and looked stern – though not cross or bitter or mean. His opinion maybe influenced by the women of Gwaine's family; maybe suspended by the memory of Geart's character. But Siura was diverted by the sight of Gwaine's swordbelt. She breathed, "You still have it."

"I never lost it," Gwaine said in a low voice. "It has been my only honor."

She nodded slowly, meeting his eyes again and he could see the temper receding. "There is much to discuss, Gwaine," she said. "But – Mother first."

"Is she very ill?" Gwaine asked, hesitantly, afraid to know the answer.

Siura ducked her head – and maybe part of her emotion was the strain of worry and care, increased these last few days and weeks. Increased, maybe, to hear his name again in rumors from Beckon Cove – to expected him and look for him, and be disappointed?

She swayed toward the stairs, then halted – struggled with herself for a moment – then threw her arms around his shoulders, squeezing him so tightly he was almost alarmed. Myles laid his hand on her shoulder as if he understood what she was feeling.

"Damn you, Gwaine," she breathed in his ear. "My little brother. My wild, careless, grieving little brother – I missed him when you took him from us. I miss you still. You let me fear for you – believe you dead, or worse. Hurt – crippled – imprisoned – enslaved… We loved you, and we _didn't know_."

She let him go before he could dismiss the moisture that sprang to his eyes, and he had to look away, to use his thumb and the knuckle of his forefinger to hide the evidence of emotion – though she saw.

"I'm sorry," he said, feeling the husky note in his voice as an ache at the back of his throat. "When I left here, I thought-"

"No," she said, interrupting him. "Mother should hear, too. Come inside – someone will see to your horse."

He glanced at Myles, who nodded to him – and flipped a signal to someone behind Gwaine. Dropping his reins, he followed Siura back up the stairs and into the hall, taking a surreptitiously moment to rub the sting from his face where she'd struck him.

The central room was open to the rafters, paved with flagstones and scented with rushes, the firepit in the center dark for the day since the season didn't require it for heat. Regardless, there were panels in the roof propped open to release any residual smoke, and to let in sufficient air and light. At the far end of the room there was a hearth for cooking, racks and cabinets for storage, dishes and foodstuffs, and Gwaine ignored the activity around it.

Siura headed to her right, to the first doorway of maybe half a dozen, mirrored on the left side of the hall and repeated on the second level above them. The room was cozy, occupied bed and chest of drawers, shutters on the outer wall open. Siura strode into the room, around the far side of the bed; Gwaine paused in the doorway and glanced down as a little girl rose from a stool by the door, evidently tasked with the vigil. She wore a scarf over thick curly hair, and an apron over a dress of the same dark blue as Siura's. Her eyes were large and watchful but she said nothing, glancing in surprise from Gwaine to Siura.

Behind him, Myles said softly, "You may go, sweetheart." The girl slipped past them through the doorway, and Gwaine's brother-in-law added in explanatory undertone, "Our daughter Caet. She's seven years old."

Gwaine's heart thudded. He had supposed children in a general way, if Siura married, but he hadn't really thought on what that meant. Family – his family also. A big-eyed, curly-haired girl-child who shared his blood. Was she the only one?

Siura had taken no notice of this, seating herself carefully on the bedside and leaning over the figure motionless under the cover. Gwaine took a step closer; the hair fanned over the pillow was thin and gray, the flesh of the face sagged into unfamiliarity, even though he _knew_.

"Mother," Siura said gently – _tenderly_ , and Gwaine was surprised, and then ashamed to be surprised. The figure on the bed stirred, opening eyes and turning toward Siura. "Mother, he's here." She beckoned, and Gwaine took another step. He felt too tall, awkward and filthy and clumsy for a sickroom. His mother turned to him, wonderingly.

"Geart," she breathed, and swallowed with difficulty.

Gwaine clenched his fists so hard his nails dug into his palms, to keep his gasp from becoming a sob. "No – Mother, it's Gwaine."

"What?" she said, sounding faintly incredulous.

His knees threatened to buckle, and he bent to fumble Caet's stool into place beside the bed, hunching over his knees.

"It's Gwaine, Mother," Siura added. "He's here. He's come back."

"My boy," his mother croaked, feeling feebly for his hand. "My little boy?"

There were sores on her hands, around the base of crooked fingers. There was another at the corner of her mouth, at the side of her nose, in the hairline at her temple, behind her ears and jaw.

Lady Doreynda, who used to level him with a single scornful glance, so that he stopped trying to do what she wanted and simply did what he wanted – except when his father corrected him, gentle and controlled and understanding-

"Yeah," he managed. "Yeah, it's me."

She stretched her fingers toward his face, not quite touching unshaven beard-scruff, before letting her hand drop to the blanket. "You look so like your father… He took his sword, and left us… You took his sword, and left us."

"I know," he said, eyes stinging and throat clogging. "I tried… I failed you, and I'm sorry."

"Where did you go?" Siura asked, and maybe her soft tone was for their mother's sake, but he received it gratefully. "What did you do?"

"I took Father's sword to Beckon Cove," he told them, speaking slowly and watching his mother's eyes for understanding. "I took it to the king, to offer my service so I could support you here and nothing would have to change."

He felt Siura's eyes on him, and maybe she was remembering as he did, that the talk of _what-do-we-do-now_ had leaned heavily toward her marrying to advantage – but without much choice or consideration of love.

"The queen would have taken me, I think," he continued, and maybe it sounded like an excuse to them. "Prince Merlin spoke for me, though he was only a child. But the king refused. I – I cursed him, and he threatened me, and I… went into exile."

His mother said nothing, only rested with her eyes pensive on his face. Siura said, "You weren't yet fifteen years old."

"I had Father's sword," he said. "I knew it well enough to make my way."

"Banditry," Myles said expressionlessly from the doorway. Siura glanced over at him; Gwaine had forgotten he was standing there.

"Mercenary," Gwaine corrected.

"You still have it?" his mother whispered.

Gwaine twisted on the stool, straightening to be able to unbuckle the belt from underneath his jacket. "I never dishonored it, I swear on my life." As he leaned forward to place it on the bedcover, where she could see and touch it, the ring on the chain around his neck swung through the loosened laces of his shirt.

"You kept that too," Siura gasped, stretching across their mother's body as if to touch it.

"Yes." Gwaine helped his mother fold her fingers around the sword's crosspiece and the guard of the sheathe. "And that, I never used. Never to claim privilege or connection or due – I went everywhere unknown."

"And now you're back," his mother sighed. "What we have missed… what we have lost…"

Guilt wrung Gwaine's heart in his chest to think of his behavior in comparison to Merlin, and Arthur. The queen and prince of Camelot, who never had each other; the adopted prince of Caerleon searching for a father believed dead since before he was born.

He'd had a choice in his own situation, and at the moment, it felt like the wrong one.

"I can stay," he declared in a low voice. "As long as you need me, as long as you want me."

"It won't be long…" His mother's voice faded, and her hand slipped from Geart's sword. Gwaine shifted forward in alarm, but her breath still rose and fell, shallow and irregular, but constant.

"She is very ill," Siura told him, sounding troubled. "We've had a healer, but he says all he can do is make her comfortable. So we… sent for you."

"I'm glad you did," Gwaine said honestly. "I thought it would be… better for you, if I stayed away. If I was wrong, I'm sorry."

Siura nodded, acceptance if not agreement. "We have a room you can use, while you're here. It's been a long time… I suppose we can talk later, if you wish."

"Thank you," Gwaine said, feeling exhaustion suddenly as an emotional as well as a physical thing. If he could help, he wanted to help, but if he could not find something to busy and distract himself _doing_ , he wanted to sleep.

…..*….. …..*….. …..*…..

Mordred crouched over the circle of stones caging the few spindly sticks he'd scrounged to start the fire with. In a moment he'd be ordered to go gather more; this wasn't enough to cook dinner for a dozen men over, and everything was soaked from the all-day drizzle that shortened daylight and everyone's temper.

But just now those dozen men were arguing and Mordred was making himself small and quiet. It wasn't as though he'd have the chance to offer his opinion anyway; he was lucky to be given a share of the food to put in his belly, and the assurance of protection from all threats Camelot.

"…Slave trade is disgusting," Theoff was saying. "Stealin' is one thing. Killin' a man when 'e resists ya takin' from 'im is one thing. But _slavin'_ …"

"The Southrons deal in slaves," Ragnor said, in the way he had of addressing everyone at once, even when he was facing only one of them. "The Saxons don't mind a convenient kidnapping, and send the unlucky soul back to their land across the sea as part of their plunder. All I'm saying is that we could make an easy profit going between the two – Southrons and Saxons."

"But Mercia don't allow it, and if we're caught-"

"If we're caught we're hung anyway. And Mercia's withdrawn from the land around Ismere – we go there first to strike our deal with whoever's in charge, then head south along the coast. And, if we can pick up some unlucky bastard along the way to demonstrate our intentions to the Saxons, so much the better for us."

Someone else grumbled about trading with the Saxons as something disloyal. Mordred paid more attention to the grumbling in his stomach; he hoped they didn't argue much longer. He was tired and wet and hungry, and if he didn't have a choice anyway, it was time wasted, arguing.

"Disloyal to who? They come here on the same business as ours, taking what they can, where they can, when they can – and the disorder they cause only makes things more profitable for the likes of us."

"We could give 'em the druid," Fendulf suggested.

A trickle of rainwater snaked down Mordred's collar, and he shivered, without looking up. Fendulf out of all of them hated magic, but didn't dare more than actively ignore Mordred, and spit sideways insults when he spoke to the others and knew Mordred could hear him.

"Then we don't have to bother tryin' to grab someone else – we know no one's gonna come lookin' for him. Saxons are always curious about magic, aren't they?"

Then he couldn't help looking up, a quick glance across the faces looking over and down on him, to gauge the combined reaction. Only two or three were actually working to unsaddle horses or unpack stores from the wagon, which wasn't surprising; they weren't cooperative the way the druid clans were, serving each other for the good of the whole. Mostly these men shirked when they could get away with it, and Ragnor did a lot of hollering and threatening to get anything done.

Their leader was frowning now, studying Mordred contemplatively – actually weighing the option as a possibility.

He dropped his head. Did he even care? He didn't suppose he could fight to stay with a band of men who'd decided to sell him, in any case, though he might be able to flee a Saxon master who was worse than Ragnor. Not one of these men liked him, or trusted him, or cared about him – save Ragnor who thought only of the magic assisting their ventures for greater profit. At least they didn't demand too much, and then beat or starve him when he couldn't deliver. The Saxons might do that.

"Nah," Ragnor decided. "He's more use to us. How 'bout that nobleman's convoy we took last month? Huh? Not a one of you could've stopped that last wagon tipping into the river by yourselves, could you?"

Grumble, grumble.

Mordred remembered thinking at the time that he should speak up and demand a greater share, since that wagon had been saved from spoiling or loss in the water by his magic alone. But he hadn't, and no one else had said anything, either. And he wasn't ready to support his challenges with physical rather than magical skill; if he ever turned that on them, he thought it likely they'd all act together to kill him quickly.

He shifted his weight, coaxing the sparks of magic to ignite the kindling in spite of the wet, and had to reposition the sword they let him keep in his belt. They didn't exercise regularly and no one bothered trying to teach or train him at all, but often they fought among themselves – quarrels arising over the division of spoils or labor, that they settled with blades or fists, though no one yet had been killed or even seriously hurt.

Twice now Mordred had been forced to defend himself in such altercations, and had been surprised by the feeling of confidence it gave him to wield the old battered sword, even gracelessly and without skill. Maybe it came from not giving a damn if he was injured or killed – and his opponent did. Maybe it came from them still being uneasy to face someone with magic, one on one.

"Who d'ya suppose the Saxons would want?" Theoff queried grudgingly. "Kids to raise in service? Women for work or pleasure? Able-bodied men?"

The others began to disperse, annoyed or uncomfortable about standing arguing in the rain. Only Theoff ever pushed the question of leadership or decision, and if he was going to go along with Ragnor's plan, then they all were. Soon enough they'd cluster around the fire, complaining about it being too small or not hot enough, suggesting that Mordred perform drying spells or weather spells, difficult or impossible or exhausting and incomplete and then they'd complain about him and maybe that would make Ragnor reconsider…

"Guess we'll know when we ask 'em," Ragnor concluded. "Maybe we can pick up one of each before we get to Ismere, hey?"

Coarse laughter. Mordred ducked his head against another trickle of rain down his neck from his hair, shivering at the tickle on his scalp.

"Druid," Ragnor said suddenly. "Go fetch some real firewood."

"Then I want 'im to look at my hand again," Theoff said. "That cut ain't healin' properly."

Mordred sighed, pushing himself to his feet with an effort, his joints creaky and sore. They seemed to think that being a druid meant the same thing as being a healer. He knew a few simple remedies, but one of these days someone was going to be mortally wounded – and then he'd be blamed for not saving them…

Why did he care. He didn't.

He stepped around the fire – hopefully it would stay alight without constant attention from his magic in his absence – and headed for the gloomy depths of the dripping woods.

This was his destiny. To be alone in a crowd, and shunned by those he belonged to. Evidently none of the gods or goddesses thought he was worthy of anything better.

 **A/N: I wanted to do something more clever with the title of this one, something along the lines of** _ **destination**_ **having the same root word as** _ **destiny**_ **… but nothing came to me.**


	4. Ambush

**Chapter 4: Ambush**

Arthur was alone again.

He and Merlin had parted company mid-morning, past the Caerleon border and dismounted in the track to shake hands and exchange half-serious advice, lingering in a way Arthur felt, but could not explain.

"Be careful, now. Especially as I won't be there to haul your royal ass out of trouble."

"Trouble? I've only ever gotten into trouble when I'm _with_ you! Maybe my actual path isn't as secure, but the mountains aren't armed enemies inhabiting the fortress I'm going to be searching."

 _Reluctance_. There, he could name it, but still not explain it.

He and Merlin shared remarkable similarities, mostly stemming from their mirror-image roles and responsibilities to their kingdoms. But Odin's son had shared those also, and he'd been insufferable. Arthur occasionally soothed conscience on that score with a private conviction that the other prince would surely have inherited his kingdom only to turn to enmity with Camelot anyway. Contrary, and insufferable even as provisional allies, at the time.

Compared to Merlin, who was raised to be Arthur's enemy, and yet had chosen friendship. Had evidently seen something in Arthur that he himself doubted at the best of times. And his indefatigable cheer and his sly wit and his utter lack of arrogance and his willingness to discuss such matters of disputation like magic…

Perhaps if things had been different and Merlin a more constant companion, Arthur might have found himself more irritated more often, more easily, by Merlin's wry candor and refusal to indulge Arthur's sense of superiority. But as it was, Arthur found his uniqueness refreshing – maybe more so for knowing it was only occasional.

And now he was on his own again.

Merlin was out of sight over the subtle hills and hidden valleys, and the wind whistled past Arthur's ears as he let his mount choose his own pace. There on his right the foothills rose to the White Mountain range, and before him he expected to see the square tower of Ismere, high and black, before nightfall. Probably he'd camp and approach it more cautiously in the daylight.

There hadn't been any settlements since Caerleon, and the lands Merlin expertly navigated to avoid the notice of his own nobility. No sign of human habitation or passage.

But, what was beginning to make him uneasy, was the lack of creature life, also. No rustling in dried grass and patchy underbrush of hare or snake or pheasant, no badger dens, no meadowlarks whistling warning to each other as he passed through. No birdsong or caution-call, not even a hawk-shape hanging motionless in a far corner of the sky.

The hairs along the back of Arthur's neck began to creep, and he resisted the urge to grip the hilt of the sword Merlin had given him. Evidently the sheathe also had protective qualities, but it was fastened to the saddle as he rode, a traveler rather than a soldier.

Was he being followed, or watched? Would any claimants of Ismere have scouts this far? or perhaps it was something more personal – whatever sentience had entered his consciousness to draw him here on this quest?

His horse's ears swiveled as he came to the top of a rise, slightly surprised to see a small wood filling a deeper valley, before him. Arthur reined in. His gelding – gray-white with darker charcoal patches – had been chosen for swiftness and stamina, and though all Camelot's mounts were trained, he was no charger accustomed to _battle_.

There was still no visible sign that he wasn't alone in the landscape, but that wood made him… uncomfortable. Unfortunately, it looked as though avoiding it would take him several hours out of his way, maybe even half a day, without promising greater safety along that route. And there was the dark edge of Ismere's tower at the far horizon, not quite blending into the curve of hills.

He wished Merlin were with him. With instincts and habits of care and caution that sometimes echoed and sometimes led Arthur's, with senses as keen and defenses arguably better – though Arthur would not concede that magic gave one a reliable extra sense, it did provide options of reaction that he did not have at his disposal.

"Can't go back," he murmured at his gelding, and those sensitive points turned back to catch his words without comprehension. "Won't go around… must go forward. Get ready to run if we have to, Shadow."

Clicking his tongue, he shifted his weight and pressed his heels, and rode down toward the wood at a wary amble.

The ground was rocky, but fairly even, scrubby but not in a way that provided much cover for a predator of the two-footed variety. Arthur guided his mount away from the denser thickets, not holding to a predictably arrow-straight course.

But the air was too still – and then too thick. His horse labored to breathe, and as his pulse pounded in his ears, Arthur couldn't help his mind skipping over campfire stories, rumors and legends of location-based magic older and wilder than that wielded by human users. His gelding skittered and lurched, too nervous to settle into the walk but too agitated to hold a smooth jogging pace.

A branch cracked in the trees to his left and just behind the side of his vision. He glanced instinctively – nothing to see – then all around in case it had been a distraction-

Nothing to see. Nothing to hear – no birds flitting about, distressed or disturbed by his trespassing, no squirrels making the most of summertime bounty.

The gelding whickered, shaking his mane and kicking out his hooves, wanting to spook. Arthur hated to draw focus from his surroundings to control the animal, but wouldn't risk dismounting to lead Shadow.

He inhaled swiftly, instinct tensing his muscles to gather his reins rather than reach for his sword-

The whole wood inhaled swiftly, and then-

" _Now_!"

A shout, and a piercing whistle, and half a dozen men appeared, swinging around the thicker tree-trunks far and near – brandishing weapons, bellowing through the previous silence in a way calculated to freeze Arthur in overwhelming terror.

Except, he was the bloody crown prince of Camelot. This wasn't his first ambush.

One second to absorb position and movement, and _there_ was a gap – and wisdom and discretion booted his gelding into the escape. Swerve around this one. Rocket past that one. Clear a fallen tree so that hooves lifted to threaten a third, and – the way was clear.

Arthur leaned low and urged the gelding's speed.

They weren't dressed as Saxons. They hadn't called out to halt his progress and demand he explain his presence in a partially-civilized way. Nothing to be gained by trying to fight six men alone, and everything to be lost.

Arthur glimpsed the edge of the forest and clear land beyond. None of them were mounted, none of them had longbows-

 _WHAM!_

It felt like he'd ridden full-tilt into a sizable branch, swinging down at him – impossible – the tree was attacking, joining the ambush.

Sound vanished. Vision blurred.

Arthur was falling – fingers nerveless and limbs sluggish – the world slanting and the ground rushing up to meet him.

He felt himself bounce, and quit breathing.

Tumble… and roll… and then everything stopped.

…..*….. …..*….. …..*….. …..*….. …..*…..

Gwaine's mother lived through the night, but in the morning was slow to rouse – he was told – and couldn't understand that he was not his father when he went to see her.

He escaped to the out-of-doors as soon as he could, guilty and ashamed because it felt to him that he hadn't changed as much as he thought. He was still avoiding the harder aspects of family and loss, still too impatient to be _still_. He had to move, to work, to do.

To fight, as if physical pain or weariness could ease the turmoil inside.

He circumnavigated the stockade twice, once outside the walls and once inside. He noted the signs of an attack – charring and chop-marks – but years old, and apparently repelled successfully. He recognized the metal-worker without remembering the man's name.

"Gwaine, as I live and breathe! Are you back for good? You're not planning to take the place from Lord Myles, are you?"

"No, just here temporarily. Lady Doreynda's illness."

"What a shame! They say it's mortal?"

"So they say."

"Have you been knighted by the king? Heard you're close with Prince Merlin – what's he like, then?"

"No, the king has no more use for me now than he did when I was young. Merlin is… something else."

"And the magic?"

Suddenly it seemed everyone within a stone's throw was listening. Because these people likely would never visit Beckon Cove, or meet Merlin face-to-face, and magic was rare. Allowed, of course, here – but unfamiliar. And incomprehensible power could be… intimidating.

So he let his grin spread wide. "That boy. A fierce fighter and a noble friend, and his lady wife so pretty and sensible! And the magic – it's incredible! I walked through fire with him – literally – and that was only the beginning. Powerful, yes, but kind – and helpful. You should have seen what he did to save the fields along the river when it flooded this spring!"

He could have gone on.

But Lord Myles walked past, and the people who'd gathered to listen open-mouthed remembered other tasks and chores, and drifted away.

Gwaine's brother-in-law eyed him for a moment, then said abruptly, "I've never met him. The prince, I mean."

He moved out from under the metal-worker's roof to join Myles in the lane. "He offered to come here with me, when we received your message in Beckon Cove."

Myles' eyebrows escaped his control briefly, elevating themselves beyond their station. "He'd have come here?"

Gwaine gave him a wry grin. "He has the heart of a prince – but he hasn't forgotten he was born common. If I could save his life by giving mine, I'd do it ten times over."

Myles grunted as if unconvinced, but Gwaine was beginning to realize, it was just the man's way, and he didn't take it personally. "Time will prove his worth, I suppose," he said. "I didn't support any of his rivals." And as suddenly as he'd introduced the topic of conversation, he changed it. "Walk with me – I've something to show you."

Gwaine fell into step, back toward the hall – past it toward the warrior's yard, where a dozen of them were practicing moves on each other, though none were sparring more seriously in a genuine test of skill.

"Ferdrinck!" Myles called out, and the nearest one turned, then approached them.

He wasn't as tall or as broad as Gwaine, his hair shorn to a bristle only slightly darker than his face, scarred on one unshaven cheek. He wore boiled-leather armor and sized Gwaine up in a glance – neither intimidated nor impressed.

"Ferdrinck came here with me from my father's estate," Myles stated, giving Gwaine no indication of how he felt about it. "He's good – the best I've seen, but he serves my family, rather than the king."

Gwaine nodded to Ferdrinck, understanding. In a war with outsiders, men like him would be loaned to the king by their noble masters – but otherwise, he hadn't had reason to join the king's troop of warriors stationed at Beckon Cove.

And, evidently Lord Myles thought his few words explanation enough; he grunted again and pivoted to stalk away.

"So you're a mercenary," Ferdrinck stated, his lip curling slightly.

"I – was," Gwaine clarified. "I'm something of an envoy these days. The prince's sworn man." Except, without the formal oath, yet.

"Care to try your hand?" Ferdrinck challenged, gesturing to the field.

They were gathering some attention here, too, he saw. Not surprising – the return of the missing brother was probably all the gossip, and everyone would be eager to add to the talk, form their own opinion and influence others.

Still, just exactly what he wanted and needed, right now. He goaded cheerfully, "You mean against just you?"

Ferdrinck shrugged, stepping in a slow, careful – casual – circle. If he gave a signal Gwaine didn't see it, but the other warriors left their pursuits to gather in a generous circle around the two of them.

"Not everyone at once," Gwaine added blithely, beginning to pace as well, in the opposite direction. Watch the ground, watch the men around – expressions, attitudes – watch his opponent for movement and balance.

He noticed also there was a boy perched on the side railing of the hall's open front gallery to watch.

"How many do you think you can handle?" Ferdrinck jibed, drawing his sword. Not in a malicious way, just – testing.

Gwaine had been tested countless times before, by potential employers, potential arms-mates. It really wasn't personal, and he usually enjoyed trying his own limits too, in a non-lethal fight.

"Maybe half," he suggested, grinning and drawing his own sword. It might be interesting to see what caliber of defense Myles could muster for Orkan-broch.

And, deliberately he turned his foot as they circled – ostensibly to avoid a stone, but he would appear off-balance and-

Ferdrinck struck. It seemed to Gwaine an instinctive thing, and the other swordsman realizing just too late that Gwaine's misstep might have been a ruse, but he couldn't pull back without opening his own vulnerabilities too, so he recommitted and rushed his charge.

It was a good choice. It kept Gwaine from ending the match in the very first moment, and they traded blows – feint, and duck – another moment. Long enough for Gwaine to feel satisfied in his family's defenses. Long enough for him to get a feel for Ferdrinck, and to notice when his gaze flickered up and over Gwaine's shoulder. His chin lifted, and-

Gwaine leaped away from the thrust of another fighter entering the circle behind him.

"It was a good try," he complimented the fellow, who'd stumbled in missing Gwaine and had to regain his footing and composure.

Gwaine grinned, and at another whisper of movement behind him, whirled into action as a third warrior joined the attack.

From there it was fast work, especially as they all were trying for disarming or surrender, not to incapacitate with a wounding or killing blow. Gwaine usually didn't work alone – though he'd never fought in tandem as he'd seen Arthur's knights do in sparring – and he'd never think to take so many on open ground like this, but he could just about manage to keep them in each other's way. Using feet, and his off fist when he had to and-

A shrill whistle split the air, and to a man the fighters stepped back, lowering their weapons.

Gwaine was gasping for breath, dripping with sweat, bent over his knees and blinking to dispel black spots in his vision.

"Never knew Sir Geart," Ferdrinck said, shifting forward and extending his hand in offered camaraderie. "But if you serve Prince Merlin, I'll never serve another."

"Cheers," Gwaine said, straightening with an effort and feeling the pull of strained muscles. "Lovely bit of exercise – thank you, lads."

Snickers. Grudging respect, maybe a flash or two of admiration. Ferdrinck added, addressing them, "Dismissed to duties."

As the warriors sheathed their weapons and began to move off, the boy who'd been crouched on the railing jumped to the ground and trotted over, weaving between the men – two of whom reached to tousle the dark curls that tumbled over the child's forehead and nearly touched his shoulders. He was slender and light on his feet and didn't smile when he demanded of Ferdrinck, "Now me!"

Eyes on Gwaine. Trying to prize Ferdrinck's fingers from his blade and claim it.

"Now, Gareth," Ferdrinck said, lightly scolding. "We've worn the gentleman out – it wouldn't be fair."

Gwaine snorted. How long ago had it been when he and the other boys had watched the men – Sir Geart included – and clamored to be allowed to join.

"Can you lift that?" he asked the boy Gareth, gesturing to Ferdrinck's sword. The boy lifted his chin, dark eyes flashing in a clear insulted affirmative. He added to Ferdrinck, "Has he had any training?"

"A bit," Ferdrinck admitted. "When his father allows it."

"Hm," Gwaine said, looking down at the boy again. Maybe his father was the metal-worker whose name he couldn't remember – that would explain an interest in the use of weaponry, rather than just the construction of them. "You're meant to be doing chores or learning a trade, and yet you want to practice the sword?"

"Not just the sword," Gareth corrected indignantly. "I want to learn maces and crossbows and longbows, hunting and tracking and riding."

"Why?" Gwaine demanded bluntly.

"Why did you?" the boy returned, gesturing at Gwaine, up and down. "I want to be a warrior of Caerleon someday. I want to go to Beckon Cove and watch for our enemies from Camelot. I want to see Prince Merlin and his magic – I want to see if a commoner should rule us."

"Well," Gwaine said, startled but not showing it. Ferdrinck rolled his eyes where the boy couldn't see. "All right, then, let's go."

Ferdrinck surrendered his sword to the boy with a shrug that denied all responsibility for what would follow, stepping back. Gareth adjusted his grip to two-handed and his stance to match, narrowing his eyes at Gwaine.

Remembering his own burning desire to prove himself, and the humiliation that came very close to fury or hatred when he'd been disarmed, Gwaine didn't tease, in word or movement.

Gareth swung, invigorating his attack with an inarticulate rising growl. Gwaine parried, watching in amused interest as the boy didn't back off, but pivoted, executing a fairly-well-chosen follow-up. He gave ground, choosing only to parry – to test – and it took the boy longer than he'd expected to tire and grow frustrated. Gareth kicked at him and missed; threw out an elbow that didn't quite reach. Gwaine took pity, twisting his blade around with a sharp rap that stung the boy's hand into dropping the hilt.

To his credit, he scrambled in a crouch to reclaim it, but Gwaine had all his weight on the blade a moment too soon.

"That was well fought, young man," he said. "Give it ten years – or maybe even eight – and I'd be glad to cross blades with you again. Actually," he added as the boy straightened, eyes flashing, "I might fear to cross blades with you, then."

"You'll be old," the boy challenged.

Gwaine laughed so hard he sent his belabored lungs into a coughing fit. "That's as it may be," he allowed. "Usually men who make their living by the sword don't live to be old."

"Gareth," said Ferdrinck, from some distance away.

They both turned; beyond him Gwaine glimpsed Siura at the gallery rail with a child resting on her hip, legs dangling, both of them watching. Ferdrinck said nothing more, but the boy took to his heels. Gwaine shoved the toe of his boot under Ferdrinck's blade and flipped it up to catch the hilt; he sheathed his own blade at his hip and strolled over to return Ferdrinck's weapon to him.

"I am very glad you don't intend to challenge Lord Myles for Orkan-broch," Ferdrinck said, taking his sword and turning to stride away without another word.

Gwaine wondered if many had expected, or feared that, these many years.

"You missed breakfast," Siura raised her voice to accuse him.

He continued on and stopped just below her, the gallery only two feet or so off the ground as the training yard was formed on a slight rise. The child that rested in her elbow was thin and quiet, gender indeterminate in a long loose garment and the straight brown hair pushed back on the brow but dropping in long locks to the collar.

"Yeah," he realized. "I'm sorry, I'm not used to…" He gestured to the hall. "Being a guest."

"Being part of a family?" Siura said tartly.

"That too, I suppose." He leaned his shoulder against one of the vertical supports of the railing; Gareth was already out of sight in the busyness of the stockade. There was another child on the floor of the gallery behind the rail, clutching the posts to peer down at him, forehead resting between two.

"I'm sorry we didn't sit down to dinner last night," she added, softening her tone slightly. "We should've. A welcome feast."

Not that he deserved it. "I'd rather the attention be given to Mother."

She grunted, not disagreeing, and shifted the child in her arms. It blinked curiously at him, content to be held, then laid its head down on Siura's shoulder. She barely moved in response, but Gwaine got the impression that she curled slightly around the child reactively.

"As a result, however," Siura went on, "you haven't met all my children."

"That one?" Gwaine guessed, pointing. _More than one_ , he marveled.

"And this one." Siura nodded down at the solemn face and chubby hands stuck through the railing, watching Gwaine.

He put his foot between two posts, stepping up to the gallery floor to lean over the top rail. The older child – a stocky boy with straight dark hair that looked about Caet's height and a third again her weight – stepped back to keep a bit of wary distance.

"That's Edwin," Siura told him. "His father's son. Likely he'll inherit."

"Instead of Caet, you mean?" Gwaine said, guessing that the girl was older in spite of their sizes. Surprising, though, that they'd even consider passing the estate to a daughter rather than to a son, even a younger one.

"He's diligent in his studies," Siura said, not really answering. "But he's young. We'll see. This is Rhys." She cuddled the child in her arms again – another boy, then, and his hair as straight as Edwin's, but a shade or so lighter. "Still my baby. But the last we'll have – he was a hard one to birth, you see, and I nearly…" She broke herself off, and Gwaine caught only a glimpse of the reality. "Anyway. He'll be our last."

Gwaine swung one leg over the railing to rest astride it, slowly so he didn't alarm the two small boys. Curious, he said, "You like having children, then?"

A smile briefly around her mouth, threatening to transform her face into something lovely, before she pulled it back – a mannerism she'd learned quite young from their mother. "I do. Does that surprise you?"

"You didn't like me as a child," he noted wryly, without accusation.

"You weren't a child, you were – a hellion in short pants and bare feet!" she snapped back. "Then you'd smile and everyone would say how cute, surely he didn't mean it."

Gwaine grinned, and she freed a hand to point at him.

"You see? There, you're still doing it!"

"I am sorry, Siura," he said, - smiling, but meaning his apology, too.

"You were you." She shook her head over the memory, not truly upset. "Honestly? When you left, Mother and I both said, we knew you'd do it someday."

"I didn't leave to abandon you," Gwaine said slowly, the levity falling away. "I meant to help."

She took a deep breath, let it out in a sigh, then nodded her acceptance. "Have you been happy?" she asked abruptly. "I know you could always – turn around and laugh, no matter what, even if you didn't mean it. But after they brought us Father's sword, you were…"

"Angry," Gwaine supplied softly. "I don't know, Siura. The first few years were hard, I guess. Til I knew that I knew what I was doing, and that I could do it well. Til I wasn't afraid. But then, there were times. Success and victory and enjoying a well-earned reward. And this year – and Prince Merlin – yeah, it's been better. It's been _good_."

"I'm glad," she said. "I'm glad you came back. We wondered – but there were times I did worry, too. That you were dead, or disgraced. That you were alone, or that you needed help, and we couldn't do anything because we didn't know. That's the worst, I think. If Father had lived, he'd have finished teaching you and training you and you'd have gone to fight for the king in his stead and maybe after a few years – twenty or so – you'd have been content to bring a bride home and settle to managing the estate and raising a family."

Her words were gentle, and touched a part of him he hadn't realized was still there, alive and sensitive in his chest.

"And you?" he said. "You're happy?" Because her two young sons were there, he didn't say anything more specific, but he tucked his chin and raised his brows.

She understood, and the ghost of a second smile chased the first, more lingeringly. "Yes," she said. "I wasn't sure in the beginning – Myles isn't easy to get to know, he was such a serious-minded young man – but he was a good man. Ever since the beginning I knew that. He respected me and valued Orkan-broch and didn't mind Mother, and… He didn't rush me. You know." Another smile, and even if Gwaine couldn't see either Myles or Siura as a giddily giggling pair of lovebirds, he could see the solid and lasting love they'd built together, for each other. "I've been pleased to bear him four children. I wouldn't have minded five or six or seven." She snuggled little Rhys again, and turned to walk away.

"Four?" Gwaine called after her. "Caet, Edwin, Rhys…"

"And Gareth," Siura tossed over her shoulder. "He's our oldest. He's nine."

…..*….. …..*….. …..*….. …..*….. …..*…..

Mordred was finding it hard not to quiver with nerves – and any movement, no matter how subtle, would be taken note of by Ragnor, who crouched next to him behind the cover of a recently-fallen tree. Dead branches spiked into the air, broken on the ground beneath and around, gnarled roots still trying to cling to the earth that erupted when the weight at the top overcame the strength and stability of the bottom.

Ragnor was watching Fendulf, a stone's throw south of them, for the passing of the signal, but he gripped Mordred's shoulder with his off hand, betraying tension, himself.

"He's close," the leader of their little band hissed to Mordred. "Get ready."

There was a little rise of ground just south of the wood, where Ragnor had stationed two scouts first thing that morning. There had been others ranging further, to east and west, to bring back news of other options, but so far they'd had no luck taking prisoners to interest the Saxons of Ismere in dealing with them for slaves.

For miles the ground was too open to take a rider who carried a sword on his saddle. The ground in the wood – according to Ragnor; Mordred could only take his word for it – was too open for a proper ambush, too. They were spread too thin by necessity and lack of cover; the rider could escape easily if he kept his head.

And if his mount was attentive to his commands. That was where Mordred became useful to Ragnor once again. His mouth was dry; he wished he dared take a mouthful from the waterskin slung across his chest and resting at his hip.

"There," Ragnor whispered, shifting forward slightly and almost shoving Mordred's nose into the bark of the fallen tree. "Put the spell on his horse. Quickly! Now!"

Mordred was afraid the distance was too great. Horse and rider appeared smaller than the size of his thumb, outstretched in front of him. Identifiable because expected, but no detail was distinguishable. He breathed hard through his nose and spoke the spell low and firm. " _Ga on wuda_ …"

The druids had used it more than once to confuse or distract a patrol that passed too close to their hiding place. The animal would spook, but not in a way that should make the traveler suspicious.

"All right," Ragnor rejoiced under his breath. "All right! He's having trouble… still coming this way…"

Mordred wondered fleetingly what business the lone rider had, in approaching Ismere. As far as he'd been told, there were no other probable destinations in this bit of countryside. He hoped they weren't set to ambush a Saxon, or someone known to them.

Ragnor inhaled, and bellowed, " _Now_!"

All over the wood, their men emerged from hiding places, racing toward the still-distant rider with weapons aloft, screaming aggression.

Mordred's heart thundered a quickened pulse in his ears. Ragnor was on his feet calling orders that no one paid attention to.

The rider didn't panic, that much was clear even to Mordred. He waited, then booted his frightened horse on a different course, low over its neck and weaving – heading more toward Ragnor and Mordred than he had been, before. Fendulf was almost kicked in the head as the quarry cleared another fallen tree, having to dive to the side for safety.

And in the space of another breath, it seemed to Mordred like the traveler might actually escape – but he wasn't allowed the opportunity to decide how he felt about that. Ragnor's fingers dug into the soft muscle between Mordred's neck and shoulder so that he had to bite his tongue on a noise of protest or pain.

"Get him!" Ragnor roared in his ear. "Get him down! Get him down!

And, Mordred felt, as soon as possible. He gathered his magic – all the breath in his lungs, all the energy in his muscles – and flung it at the unfortunate traveler in one go. _Screaming_ himself, but silently.

Debris leaped into the air in a ruffling path away from him like crumbs from a shaken cloth. Saplings leaned to escape him, limbs bent to point in the direction of his focus, and one of them – luckily for Mordred, or Ragnor's favor would be sorely tried – slapped the rider right in the face.

His arms flew up, loosing the reins, and he tipped – too far for conscious balance to recover. And he wasn't conscious, Mordred could tell by the way he fell, making no attempt to catch or stop himself.

Mordred was on his feet, heart in his mouth. He'd done that. _He'd…_ done _that_. To a stranger, someone who'd never done him harm. And he still wasn't allowed the opportunity to decide how he felt about that. Ragnor's fingers slipped from his flesh and tightened into a fist around his clothing, dragging him up and over their fallen tree, toward their fallen quarry.

"Boys!" he shouted. "Catch the horse, it'll be worth something too!"

Mordred stumbled, and Ragnor yanked him harder, impatient to make sure of their captive. In a moment they saw him, facedown in the dirt and unmoving.

He didn't know whether to feel proud or scared.

Ragnor caught his breath sharply, and rounded on Mordred even as several of their men began to join them at a jog, curious to study their prize.

"You idiot!" Ragnor shouted, scowling. He released his hold on Mordred's shirt only to swing around and clip his ear with his other fist, almost knocking Mordred to the dirt, also. "If you've killed him-"

"He's not dead," one of the others volunteered.

The crumpled rider moaned, and shifted minimally, and subsided.

Ragnor snatched at Mordred again, gripping him by his upper arm and the nape of his neck, ignoring his hands raised in instinctive defense. "He's your responsibility now, _druid_. If he dies, it's on you."

Mordred swallowed rebellious protest as futile, spilling to his knees beside the fallen man as Ragnor released him violently.

 _I really don't know how to do this. I'm not a healer._

No one moved to help him. Warily he touched the man's shoulder – plain clothing, but slightly better than rough peasant homespun – to push him over to his back. The lax body didn't cooperate with Mordred's intentions; his hands hovered as he thought of broken bones.

Blood obscured half of the man's face, clotting in hair that was straight and well-cut, light brown or a very dirty dark blonde. Maybe his nose was broken. Or the bones of his face smashed in – maybe he was _dying_ , this very moment…

Mordred decided to take heart from the fact that he was breathing, albeit a bit unevenly and a bit noisily, from the blood and dirt in his face.

"Are we stayin' the night here?" Theoff asked Ragnor. "Looks like they got hold of 'is horse anyway, but 'e won't be in any fit state to walk anymore t'day. If ya ask me."

"Nobody did," Ragnor snapped. "All right, we camp here. Druid, you get him cleaned up and patched up and conscious and we'll see what we got."

He turned away, raising his voice on orders for the rest, making a haphazard camp. Mordred sat on his heels and watched, long enough to guess that he wouldn't be required to move his patient – and someone else would have to find the pool or stream that fed this wood, and fetch and carry water. Someone else would have to cook dinner, or they'd all have to scrounge cold.

Mordred scooted to begin at the man's feet, mostly because he thought the injuries to the head were the worst and would take the longest to clean, and he wanted to put that off as long as he could, if he was going to accidentally kill the traveler in trying now to help.

Solidly made boots, though the leather wasn't expensive; he removed them because someone would claim them, and they might not be as gentle. He tested and shifted bones and sinews, watching the rise and fall of the man's chest, the stuttered bloody breaths for any signs that he should pause and probe for deeper injury.

Reaching his upper body without suspicion of more than bruises, he eased the angular, flopping arms out of the dark hide vest – someone would claim that, too – to discover damage to the ribs on the left side. Cracked, fractured, broken – though he didn't think they'd been smashed into lethal fragments on the inside – maybe he'd tie them up tight when the poor fellow woke.

His lower shoulder had bled into the dirt, Mordred found. Ragged slashes through sleeve and skin from the offending branch, or twigs and underbrush when he fell. Shallow, bleeding sluggishly – Mordred dabbled water over them til he could get to his pack and the torn cloths they expected him to carry for bandages.

The man moaned softly again, and Mordred gingerly rubbed a pair of cupped handfuls of water over his forehead, down his cheek. Blood still oozed from a gash over his left eyebrow, continuing in a furrow gouged down the left side of his face. Mordred hoped he'd still be able to see from that eye, when he woke-

If he woke. Sometimes when men were struck in the head… Was Mordred supposed to try to rouse him? Keep him awake? Because if he fell asleep again, he might not wake up?

He hated this. All of this healing work, and being told that any man's health or life was up to him. He'd far rather hold that power with a sword or with magic.

The man's nose had bled, but that was slowing to a trickle. His lips were swelling, as well as his brow and the side of his jaw. Mordred would need wet cloths to for that bruising, occasionally rinsed and re-wetted to keep cool.

"Will he live?" Ragnor demanded.

Mordred was startled into looking up at him, unsure how long he'd been observed. "Yeah, I think so," he responded, his voice husky from lack of use. Usually no one talked to him, and he rarely had anything to say to any of them that couldn't be expressed without words, by look or gesture. "I need water, and bandages."

Ragnor signaled someone that Mordred didn't look around to see. "Fetch me when he wakes and can talk. I want to know who he is, what skills he might have… Someone will bring your dinner."

Mordred ducked his head in a nod. Not quite _Thanks_ , and not quite _Sorry_ , and not quite _Yes Master_.

As Ragnor stalked off, Mordred eyed the bloody face of the man he'd unhorsed for capture and enslavement, and wondered that it felt different than when he'd defended himself against another member of the band. Because this man was innocent, and taken unawares – and unfairly, with no chance to defend himself.

He had to hope this man would live. But now he also wished he hadn't taken part at all. It wasn't to his credit – no one would applaud or reward him in any way – it was more like, his fault.

Ruin and destruction. Was that his destiny also?


	5. When the Student

**Chapter 5: When the Student…**

Morgana inhaled sharply as the door across the room opened, holding her concentration – and the reflected scrying image in the water-basin – by sheer bloody willpower. Then the belatedly-realized identity and presence of the intruder into her chamber – their bedchamber – calmed her and firmed the focus of the image reflected on the surface of the water.

She watched as Morgause, her long blonde ringlets free across the chainmail protecting her back, strode across a dark, dim chamber. Stone walls, and cobwebs festooning the braziers placed convenient to an unoccupied dais. The single chair placed there was unoccupied and cobwebby, too.

"What are you doing?" Acollyn asked her, shuffling off his jacket and unbuckling his sword-belt.

"I found her," Morgana answered, squinting down into the basin to study her sister's companions as they exited the chamber through a series of high thick doors bound with old iron.

"Your sister?" Acollyn said, surprised. "Where is she?"

He knew she'd been attempting to perfect this spell for months. Finna – the tutor from Helva recommended by Merlin's tutor - was of the opinion that Morgause had shielded or warded herself somehow. So if Morgana could see her now, what did that mean?

"I don't know," Morgana answered absently, studying now the courtyard – more signs of life, of habitation. More men, horses, a supply-wagon… "It's not Cenred's castle, that's for sure. What do you think? Take a look?"

Acollyn hummed a cautious note, crossing to bend over the arm of her chair, kissing her temple even as he studied the surface of the water in the basin. For one second, before he went very still.

"What is it, what's wrong?" she asked, leaning to bring her cheek into contact with his shoulder, without breaking the contact of her gaze or concentration.

"Those men are dressed as Saxons," he murmured, watching even more closely than she.

Because the Saxons were invaders, self-proclaimed enemies of every native of Albion's isles, come not with any intention of peaceful treaty or trade, but to raid and conquer and steal and kill. Why would Morgause be with them? She was never one to seek refuge when she could make allies and take action.

"Where, though, do you know?" she said anxiously.

It didn't look to her either as though her sister was captive or coerced. As with Cenred, she'd rule through some sort of manipulation, using their desires or fears for her own aims. Only, what were they? Revenge, still, against Uther's Camelot? though Arthur ruled and magic returned and Morgana herself enjoyed calling it – more specifically, her familial estate of Trevena – home?

"I don't," Acollyn said regretfully. "I've heard reports though, that having failed in the north and along the east coast, they've tried coming south by the river, and have made landings in the uninhabited west."

Something in Morgana's neck twinged, and she blinked, and the image was gone. Gray spots replaced it in her vision, and she allowed Acollyn to shift her chair away from the table. She rubbed her eyes, feeling him kneel and lean into her knees, his hands draping themselves affectionately at her hips as he rested his elbows on the arms of her chair.

"Shouldn't we tell Arthur?" she asked him, dropping her hands to gaze into his dark-honey-brown eyes.

He smiled, sympathetic to her dilemma – birth or adoptive family. Past or future. "No, I don't think so. The warning of the Saxon venture down the Severn came from his scouts. He knows."

"But he's traveling in the west," Morgana pressed, just to be sure.

"He's traveling anonymously," Acollyn reminded her. "Which would make it almost impossible for a messenger to find him. And he's Camelot's greatest warrior and finest leader…"

She made a sarcastic noise out of habit, though he was more or less right.

"I'm sure he'll be fine," her husband concluded, smiling, and leaned forward to claim her mouth – and her thoughts – with his kiss.

…..*….. …..*….. …..*….. …..*….. …..*…..

Gwaine spent the better part of the rest of his first day in Orkan-broch trying to track down his brother-in-law at a time and in a place where he might strike up a relaxed and private conversation.

It wasn't easy. His mother wasn't restful, and every time she woke she wanted to see him. Three times she believed he was Geart, and grew agitated when they tried to correct her, and twice she recognized him for himself, but fell back into unconscious sleep only moments into his explanations answering her questions, _where have you been? what have you been doing?_

As the sun was going down, Gwaine strode out of the hall to the front gallery, breathing deeply and almost desperately of the fresh air, and startling Lord Myles, on the second stair and coming up.

"Gwaine," Myles said heavily, clearly tired after his day's work.

"Doreynda is still with us," Gwaine said immediately. "Though they tell me she is declining. How was your day?"

One corner of Myles' mouth twitched as if amused in spite of himself. He gestured an invitation toward a corner of the open gallery, and Gwaine followed him, to lean against one rail while Myles rested against the one adjacent.

"I have my doubts that you truly care about a thorough answer to that question," he observed.

"You might be right," Gwaine conceded with an amiable grimace. "As to thoroughness and details. But overall?"

"It was a better day than most," Myles allowed. "Yours?"

Gwaine hummed. "I met your three sons."

A rare and surprising smile cracked through the lines on the older man's face. "Your nephews," he reminded Gwaine.

"It's a lot to take in," Gwaine admitted.

Lord Myles crossed his arms over his chest and harrumphed, unimpressed. Well, yes, it made sense that it required more mental fortitude to parent said children than for an extended relative like himself to realize and adjust to their existence.

"You can be very proud of all of them, is what I mean to get at," Gwaine added.

Edwin had answered questions in a taciturn way, red-faced and self-conscious but with no apparent thought of escape. Also, with no apparent appreciation of Gwaine's sense of humor. Little Rhys had been shy, tongue-tied and inclined to shadow his older sister.

And Gwaine had spent nearly an hour weeding in the kitchen garden with Caet, who was not so much like her mother as Gwaine had expected. On her own, she'd readily explained the rows of plantings, had invited him to dirty his knees – and corrected him when he reached for the wrong bits of greenery.

Then she sat back on her heels to observe him, and as he stumbled over an awkward speech of explanation for the situation – _I'm your mother's brother, I've been gone a long time_ – she said surprisingly-

"My mother loves you, I think."

"Does she really?" he asked, smiling but not committing to belief.

Caet had a thin little face and thoughtful dark eyes. "She won't let Gran complain about you, ever. And she always tells me how important it is to be kind to my brothers. And gentle and a good friend, so they know I love them."

Gwaine's dirty fingers gripped his knees, planted for balance. She cocked her head at him like a little sparrow.

"Only, I'm always nice and I tell Rhys I love him – 'cause the older boys don't want to hear that, even though I'm their friend too. But Mother tells that to me anyway."

"I'm afraid," Gwaine said gently, "I was not a very good brother back, and your mother is a very good sister to forgive me and welcome me anyway."

"They thought you might be dead," Caet confided, leaning over to begin pulling weeds again. "I'm glad you're not."

"Several times, I almost was," Gwaine had said, and began to tell her stories – a version that was appropriate for little-girl ears. And he'd been thrilled to make her giggle out loud.

Lord Myles regarded him thoughtfully. "I am. Very proud of them. All of them, in different ways."

"So I wanted to say…" Gwaine felt awkward; this was not something he had much experience with – _I swear all the damn time_ … "If there's ever anything I can do for you, or your family, or for Orkan-broch or anyone here, just let me know and I'll see it done if it lies within my power to accomplish."

Myles stared and him expressionlessly. Something on the gallery roof shifted or skittered – raven, or squirrel maybe – and Gwaine began to feel his face heat. Then his brother-in-law said softly, " _Our_ family."

It was an enormous and extremely generous correction. Gwaine said honestly, "Thank you."

"Siura said you crossed blades with Gareth this morning," Myles continued.

"I did."

"What is your opinion of him, then?"

Gwaine shifted his weight, and the little noise from the roof repeated. "Do you mean – his personality, or his skill?"

"His potential," Myles clarified, without giving any indication what he expected to hear, or what he hoped not to hear.

Still Gwaine hesitated. Because hadn't Siura said earlier, Edwin would inherit? What did that mean for the eldest-born, then?

"My older brother had no interest in the sword," Myles said evenly. "We had a cousin who served with the king's warriors – for only two years before he was killed at Fyrien. I was not pleased to notice Gareth's interests in those pursuits, but if I were a warrior myself, I'd train him as befits a lord's son. To honor and intelligence and command, not just to match the rabble that defends Beckon Cove, but to exceed."

Gwaine nodded, agreeing with the vision. His own father had hinted as much before riding away to his last battle.

"However, I am not a warrior," Myles added, with just enough dry wit to make Gwaine reconsider what he thought he knew of the man's character and demeanor. "And Ferdrinck can only teach him so much."

"You probably want someone to take him as a squire, that's my advice," Gwaine offered. "Merlin says good things of Tythan – he's the king's right hand man. Though he is getting on in years for a warrior, maybe that would be better than a younger man – he could teach Gareth wisdom from experience. But whether he'd agree to take him…"

"We do want someone to take him as a squire," Myles said, and there was a squint of scrutiny in the lines around his eyes. "We've discussed it, Siura and I. We wondered if you'd accept the responsibility."

Another scratch-scrabble from above, and a sound like the chirp of a starling.

Gwaine said stupidly, "What?"

"Ferdrinck said you're a mad demon with the sword," Myles said – an explanation though he didn't sound like he was explaining, or felt he had to. "And you're close with Caerleon's heir. Siura believes you'd protect Gareth with your life if you took him as a squire, more so than any stranger, and that he'd learn much from you. I believe that she thinks to tether you to us in a more tangible way, and that you'll be less likely to vanish for another ten years with our son in your care. Perhaps she intends to teach you the meaning of responsibility, in forcing it upon you."

Gwaine said – still stupidly – "Me?"

The floor of the gallery seemed to have disappeared under the soles of his boots. His skin was cold and hot at once, and his hands large and clumsy. Any moment now Myles would bark an abrupt laugh and tell him he could leave Orkan-broch whenever he was packed.

But he didn't. One gray brow rose fractionally, and otherwise his expression didn't change.

"Me," Gwaine repeated in disbelief.

"You can think about it," his brother-in-law informed him, shifting to pass him and enter the hall.

Hells. Gwaine couldn't help thinking about it, in spite of his initial reaction to immediate negative. About a small boy with a big mouth and a quick temper riding behind Gwaine's saddle – or maybe on a sturdy pony of his own. Depending on Gwaine not only for training – that would be the easy part, he knew just how to do that – but for everything else, too. Food and shelter and care. And he'd get sick – and homesick – and maybe he'd hate Gwaine and maybe he'd run away, and-

Gwaine's throat closed at the thought of his dark-eyed nephew trying to make his own way in some of the rougher towns he'd passed through. A kid with a sword who thought he knew how to use it.

Just like Gwaine himself. Hells… now he understood a little better, what he'd done to his mother and sister. At the time he'd seemed perfectly capable, to himself.

Shufle-rustle from the gallery roof.

Suspecting, Gwaine grabbed the corner support post, lifting his boot to the rail and hoisting his weight up, twisting and leaning to get out from under the overhang, just able to rest his elbow on the roof.

And, close enough to reach out and touch, the startled eyes and tousled hair of young Gareth, the rest of him stretched out on the roof and frozen with tension.

"How'd you get up there, then?" Gwaine said conversationally, shifting his feet on the railing below for stability. "They'd stop you if you tried to do it the way I am right now."

Gareth made a noise of assent – that had been tried, with results as Gwaine described - then spoke cautiously. "Back corner. The hill rises higher there. You can jump and catch hold, and… wiggle up."

Gwaine made the same noise, twisting it interested. "It's quite a view from up here. You can see a lot going on."

"Yeah…" Gareth's eyes were fastened to him, and the tension had only partially abated. Fear of discovery transitioning to fear of punishment – if Gwaine would tell his parents and if they would express anger or disappointment, and how.

"I bet you can hear some things, too," Gwaine observed. "Folks standing right beneath you, not knowing you're there…"

Gareth gave him a childish version of his father's expressionlessness, but his eyes spoke volumes.

"What do you think, then?" Gwaine asked, keeping his tone light and easy. "Do you want to be a squire?"

Cautious nod.

Gwaine's throat was suddenly dry. "D'you want to be _my_ squire?"

Gareth turned his head from side to side, but it wasn't an answer to the question that was asked. "You don't want me."

Gwaine did his nephew the favor of taking the low-spoken accusation seriously. "It'll take some getting use to. I haven't been around kids since I was one myself. I'll tell you what I don't want, though, is you coming with me filled with grand ideas, then giving up or running away when things get hard or messy. When you're exhausted and every inch of you hurts from practice and you're still not any good and you have to unsaddle your horse and oil your armor and your weapon and then cook your food, all before you get to sleep in a damp blanket on the hard ground with smoke in your nostrils and your rear freezing cold."

Gareth's eyes were wide. "Why do you do it, then?"

He snorted. "When I left home, I was determined I was going to be a fierce warrior to prove to the king he'd made a mistake in not taking me in. And then I was just determined to survive – to earn my bread and a roof over my head in the winter. Now… I think when you meet Prince Merlin, you will understand why I do it, now."

"Is it worth it?"

Gwaine had to stop himself from laughing – in his precarious position he might well fall off the gallery rail. "Most days."

Gareth pulled back, eyes wary. "But you ran away from your family, before. How do I know you won't run away from me?"

He took a deep breath and let it out. Because he remembered, when anyone told him _Trust me_ , he always felt the opposite. "I'll have to think about that," he told the boy. "Let me know if you have any ideas, what would reassure you. Anyway, we don't need to decide this today. Why don't you go to that back corner and jump down, so when your mother calls you for dinner, you're not too late."

Gareth's expression eased into something approaching a smile, and he began to turn and lift himself to his elbows to crawl.

"And, say," Gwaine added. "We're not watching for enemies from Camelot anymore. Their prince Arthur is regent, and he's comrades with our Prince Merlin."

Gareth's brows narrowed in childish skepticism, and then Gwaine let his grin show.

"If you end up coming with me, you'll see it for yourself, sooner or later."

A contemplative look came over Gareth's face, and he began to squirm away with alacrity. Gwaine gave the rest of Orkan-broch a last look from the vantage point, before lowering himself to the gallery floor.

Hells, though, to have a child under his wing. Any child, but – his sister's child. And it wasn't just the weapons-skills – it was when to act and when not to, how to act and how to decide how to act… Gwaine himself had acted on instinct and sometimes the recollected principles of his father when he had the time to reflect on such memories. And he'd made _many_ mistakes.

If Gareth got into trouble, it could be worse than if he was hurt. If he grew into a man who was quarrelsome or foolish or gullible, if he listened to the wrong men and made the wrong choices…

"Why _me_?" Gwaine asked himself, dismayed.

But maybe a little excited, too.

…..*….. …..*….. …..*….. …..*….. …..*…..

Mordred had only just sponged the last of the blood from the injured traveler's face, when he began to show signs of struggling his way back to consciousness. He sat back on his heels warily, glancing about to see where Ragnor might be, when the moment came to call for him.

The sun hadn't yet descended behind the western horizon, and they were close enough to the edge of the sparse wood that the glow of dusk was near enough noontime shade for clarity of light. No one was close to him, or paying much attention to them aside from a general awareness of presence, and Mordred decided to wait, in case the stranger succumbed to unconsciousness again. They'd have to tie his hands, and probably his feet as well, if he woke clear-minded enough to comprehend what had happened to him and willful enough to scheme for and attempt his freedom.

The man groaned, twisting first one way, then the other to curl over his injured ribs on his left side. He got a hand down, and his elbow – he blinked confusedly down at the dirt, but persevered grimly toward sitting. Willful, Mordred reckoned.

And with the blood and the swelling on that side of his face turned away from Mordred, recognition sparked.

His mouth dried, and he shuffled back involuntarily. That face – he'd seen a face very like this man's, once when he was younger, when he was very close to Camelot. He'd been tired and wounded and frightened himself, craving the refuge of Iseldir's clan, empty and sick with the loss of Cerdan's care and companionship.

The man swung his upper body around, slouching over bent legs, one had wrapping his ribs, the other reaching tentative fingertips to explore the damage to his face. Hissing an oath under his breath, "Damn it…"

Mordred's heart thundered hollowly in his chest. It was impossible. Not all the way out here. And alone. And not a single hint of crimson, or the golden insignia of-

"You were meant to call me when he woke."

Ragnor's voice accused Mordred, and he glanced up just as the older man's boot nudged him ungently from his crouch to a sprawl in the dirt. Their captive straightened at the sound, eyes snapping to Ragnor's face, chin lifting – hand feeling at his hip for the absent swordhilt. It was a fighter's reaction, Mordred knew that much.

"Who are you, then?" Ragnor demanded of the man, ignoring Mordred again as he gathered his knees to his chest. "You luckless traveler, you…"

"If we're making introductions," the stranger said – his voice was still husky, but pulled at the edges of Mordred's memory also, matching with the lines of his face- "perhaps you should go first."

Ragnor laughed, confident in his dominance. "My name will mean nothing to you."

But would _his_ , Mordred wondered, watching the fair-haired warrior with the familiar voice, mean something to _them_.

"You're our prisoner," Ragnor continued carelessly. "We're a day south of Ismere, give or take. There's Saxons there who'll buy you – maybe keep you here to work for them, maybe send you back to their own shores… So who are you? What can you do? What are your abilities and skills?"

The man shifted like he wanted his feet under him – glancing momentarily at Mordred – but Ragnor casually drew his sword and squinted down its length at their captive.

"If," he observed, "you try to fight, maybe we'll take off the thumb of your sword hand. Make sure you'll serve your new master without danger of rebellion. If you cooperate – if you have some skill or trade to increase your worth…" He shrugged. "Well. You can expect better care to be taken of a valuable investment."

The man didn't answer, tense but still. His eyes were on Ragnor's, rather than the blade menacing him, though most men would focus on that.

"Still nothing?" Ragnor goaded, impatient and faintly disappointed. "You're not a miller, or a joiner, or a cobbler? Not a smith?"

"Not with that sword on 'is saddle," Theoff said, tramping up behind the captive – who twisted a quick look over his shoulder before returning his attention to Ragnor, since Theoff's axe was still tied down at belt and thigh.

"I know arms… and armor," the traveler allowed cautiously.

"Craftsman?" Ragnor asked.

"Care of. Use of." The captive seemed to relax slightly, letting his gaze flit about them, taking in details of the camp being set up.

Prince Arthur. Mordred bit his tongue. Prince bloody Arthur Pendragon of Camelot. How was that for increasing his worth?

If he said it. If the man could not deny it and make Ragnor believe him. Mordred could not expect any reward of coin or prize or even to earn a place of greater respect and treatment in the band. Just like with his magic, they'd take his information for their own profit, and continue to ignore him.

If he said it. They could ransom the prince back to Camelot – they or the Saxons if they chose to sell the foreigners a prince of Albion. That would keep him safe and well cared for, and returned home after the conclusion of the deal. Or – just as likely – the Saxons could execute him brutally and publicly and move into Camelot more openly in greater numbers.

"How do you feel after your fall?" Ragnor continued, falsely solicitous. "Just a bump on the head? We give you something to eat and a night's sleep and you'll be ready for a day's walk tomorrow?"

He didn't answer. Ragnor jerked his head and Theoff moved, kneeling behind the prisoner to wrench his hands behind him, tying them with a leather cord. Tightly, it looked like to Mordred; he'd have to check it wouldn't cause lingering damage. Then he and Ragnor exchanged places and Theoff repeated the process with the captive's bootless ankles.

"I'm supposed to eat with my hands behind my back?" the traveler said, with royal arrogance.

Mordred bit his lip.

Behind the captive, Ragnor backhanded him across the uninjured right side of his face, hard enough to tumble him down into the dirt again.

He didn't make a sound. His heels shuffled as he bent his knees ineffectively; the shoulder that was uppermost jerked like he was trying to get back up to sitting – but he couldn't quite manage.

Mordred pushed to his feet and saw that even though the blue eyes were open, they were focused only a few inches from the ground, only a few inches in front of his face.

He found he was furious, and glared at Ragnor, who scowled back. Mordred started, "You said-"

"Keep him alive," Ragnor said dismissively, turning on his heel.

"If 'e escapes, it's on your head," Theoff told him sardonically. "If 'e dies…" He shrugged, and followed Ragnor.

…..*….. …..*….. …..*….. …..*….. …..*…..

Arthur's head throbbed like Elyan's forge. Overwhelming heat and relentless pounding, iron on iron, vibrations that skittered over his skin and dripped down his bones. Sparks that exploded in his side and caught and smoldered in his shoulder and he couldn't move to lessen the pain. He was panting, he realized, shorter breaths and shallower and the world eddied and smeared around him – greens and browns and then a pale face surrounded by shaggy black hair.

 _Merlin_ , he tried to say.

Not Merlin. They'd parted, and Merlin was far from here. He was alone – not even a day, before…

Hands touched him, curled round his neck, pulled at him. He tried to resist.

"You have to roll. You're not breathing properly. Your ribs, and… dirt in your shoulder I'll have to wash again… bandages…"

A young voice. Soft and slightly hoarse. Uncertain… wary.

He remembered. An ambush that hadn't really worried him, until – magic? A dozen men, maybe. The man who'd spoken to him – a moment of marshaling strength and concentration to face his enemy before he'd collapsed again – an ignorant obnoxious slave trader.

A day south of Ismere. He had a day to recover and escape before he'd be sold to Saxons… in Ismere. Why had he come here? Alone and unaided… Now he was the captive, with no one to guarantee his safety if he cooperated – no one knew who he was.

His body tipped, pulling at his shoulder and crushing his arms into the ground beneath him. His wrists stung with a line of fire and he was tipping again, over to his right side.

They'd threatened to cut off his sword-hand thumb, which was actually a fearsome threat, though he had trained with his left hand – adequately, not proficiently. He'd have to convince them he was weak – maybe even addled by the blow that seemed to split his head open over his left eye again and again at each heartbeat – and incapable of escape.

So they wouldn't watch him.

So he could take his chance, when it came. Maybe when he was guarded by a single man – steal his weapon at least, and Shadow back if it seemed likely…

"Hey. There's water."

Arthur was breathing a bit better in the new position. He opened his eyes – one eye, as the other was swollen shut, and focused on the face of a boy a few years yet from manhood. Smooth face – distant blue eyes – grimly expressionless. The boy offered the mouthpiece of a waterskin, and Arthur slurped a few awkward swallows.

It turned his stomach, and set the world whirling again. The air itself pressed down on him, and his lungs labored against the pain in his side.

"I need to sit up," Arthur gasped. "I need to… sit up a little."

"There's a tree just behind you. You can lean against it." The boy put the waterskin down and reached to support Arthur's head.

He dug his heels into the ground to push his hips in the direction the boy indicated – his boots were missing – and scraped his way up the bark of the tree, his shoulder-blade stinging like his wrists til he quit, and sagged against the unyielding support.

It didn't help much. Between the knock on the head and seeing through only one eye, he was incredibly dizzy. Weakness wouldn't have to be feigned.

And he was shocked to feel his mouth drop open and hear his own voice mumble in admittance, "I'm so dizzy…"

The boy didn't respond.

Ashamed – and a bit curious – Arthur opened his one eye again. Was the boy his guard? He didn't see anyone else in the compromised clarity of his vision, but he could hear – muffled, as if through water or closed doors – and feel the vibrations of movement from further away.

He breathed, and the boy watched him. There was a sword in his belt, twisted negligently behind him as he crouched in the dust and hugged his knees.

Arthur blinked. Gwaine had begun his mercenary career at about the same age as this boy, but Arthur had the feeling his friend would have boasted and swaggered and teased, acting older and more confident than he was. This boy was… uncertain and wary.

"You're young for this work," Arthur said. Maybe he should keep his mouth shut, though, he wasn't completely sure he could control everything that came out, in his condition at the moment.

The boy didn't respond, again, only stared at Arthur, oddly intent.

Well, at least it might take his mind off things. And if there was a corresponding weakness amongst his enemies that he could exploit… Arthur continued, "Do you have an older brother with this band? Your father?"

The boy's lip curled in an almost-sneer. "I have no one."

Interesting. Arthur challenged, "So you just – enjoy the work? Killing, and stealing from innocent folk? You enjoy causing pain, and fear?"

A desperate, sickened look passed over his face, and he tucked his chin between his knees, still keeping his eyes on Arthur.

Who added, more softly, "No…" And eyed the boy back. He did remind Arthur of Gwaine. And maybe it was the pain and disorientation talking – and maybe it was something else. "If I… made you an offer. Would you feel it your duty to report what I said to your leader?"

The boy said nothing. And a moment later, when footsteps rustled closer, he looked up while Arthur looked down, sagging back and panting softly.

"Your dinner," the bandit informed the boy, roughly and carelessly. From the corner of his eye, Arthur caught sight of a hunk of torn bread dropping into the boy's waiting hands. The man carried a shapeless pack by a long strap doubled in his other hand, which he also let fall to the ground by the boy's knee. "Share it with him or don't – that's all you'll get."

The boy's gaze centered down on the bread; Arthur was quite sure his expression was hidden from the standing man – especially as he turned and sauntered away without another apparent thought for either of them.

He wasn't a weakness. He wasn't an advantage, or a potential ally. He was a hungry child, caught by circumstances in the middle of a band of unprincipled men.

 _I have no one._

Arthur said, as steadily as he could, "If you help me, I will take you with me. Wherever you wish to go. If you have nowhere else, I can find or make a place for you near my home. A family, or an occupation if you'd like to apprentice yourself to a trade."

The boy snorted, not looking at Arthur as he pulled the hunk of bread into two pieces. Then leaned forward to offer one close enough to Arthur's mouth to bite a mouthful off – as though he thought Arthur's words were merely to make sure of his portion of the meager dinner.

Arthur couldn't help being aware of the boy's sword. But with his hands bound behind him, so tightly his fingers felt as swollen as his face – which was going to be a problem eventually – he couldn't do anything about it. But nor did he lean forward to eat of the boy's bread.

"If that's all they're giving us," Arthur said, feeling self-consciously – stupidly, maybe – noble. "You just eat it."

Surprise flared in blue eyes, but after a moment the boy retreated into sullen isolation to devour his bread. Arthur's stomach cramped to watch him, but he was fairly sure if he tried to swallow anything more than a sip of water, the nausea from the pain in his head would cause him to vomit it back up.

And, the boy hadn't told his fellow bandit that Arthur had made him a proposition. Maybe because that would make them view the boy with suspicion rather than careless trust, and he knew it… but still.

"Do you believe me?" he said, keeping his voice low and his own head down, in case they were observed. "That I can do that for you – take care of you? That I would?"

The boy shrugged, eating his bread with obvious hunger. But listening – and watching.

"I am – not without influence, where I live," he said delicately, not wanting to give too much away in case he was wrong and the boy repeated his words to the slavers.

"I know who you are," the boy said bluntly, unimpressed.


	6. Is Ready

**Chapter 6: …Is Ready**

" _I know who you are," the boy said bluntly, unimpressed._

Arthur felt his focus tighten, in spite of the throbbing in his head and the blurry edges of his vision. He watched the boy stuff the last of the bread in his mouth, and move to open the bag at his side, still chewing. He watched the boy pull out a handful of dingy cloths, and separate one to soak with his waterskin.

He moved around to crouch at Arthur's left side, loosening the laces of his shirt so he could pull the edge of the collar over his shoulder for access to the wound paining Arthur there. It felt more like a smith's file than soft cloth the boy wiped over his torn flesh, and the mix of increased pain and haziness turned his stomach again.

Almost desperately he said, "And who am I?"

Pressure on his shoulder increased as the boy leaned to hiss in his ear, "Pendragon."

Dammit. But then again- "Why didn't you tell the others?"

Darkness pulsed in irregular waves with each brush of the cloth until the boy was finished. Arthur blinked and watched him roll and place a bandage, awkwardly as Arthur's arm was pulled tight to his side by the bonds at his wrists. His brows were down in a troubled scowl.

"I don't know."

Arthur regretted the question as soon as it was out of his mouth; he didn't want to antagonize the boy or make him choose sides. Yet. "Are you going to?"

The boy occupied himself wetting the other clothes, and draped them carefully over Arthur's forehead and down his cheek, not meeting Arthur's eyes til he concluded his task. "I don't know…"

Arthur considered, as the boy moved back and began to prepare a resting place for himself, for the night. If he laid flat on the ground, his feet would kick Arthur's, but it looked like he was going to curl up against the tree like Arthur was. Watchman for the night. And it wasn't cold enough to need a fire, but still no one bothered to pause and offer. The boy – and Arthur – though they were surrounded by the loose, careless encampment, were ignored.

 _I have no one._

The cool wet of the cloths eased the throbbing slightly. Arthur said conversationally, "How do you know who I am?"

That might make all the difference. Who the boy was, what he thought of Arthur – he hadn't told the bandits what he knew because evidently their treatment of him hadn't encouraged his loyalty. But Arthur was well aware that not every person who recognized him would feel loyalty either.

The boy gave him a swift troubled glance, then abruptly stood, walking away with the waterskin in his hands.

Arthur filled his lungs and let the air out slowly, controlled. The boy's pack lay just too far for him to reach with his outstretched foot; he wondered if there was anything in there he could use anyway. Would the discovery of a knife be worth the tacit betrayal of whatever tentative connection he'd begun to build?

A shout from one of the men drew Arthur's attention to the side. "Hey, druid! You were told he's your responsibility! Get back over there!"

He thought it was the same man who'd spoken to him. And his boy the only boy among these dozen men, short and slight and unable to duck the hand flung at his face. He staggered, and if he made any excuse – having to fetch his own water if no one else did, or would – Arthur didn't hear it. The boy recovered his balance and came back toward Arthur – as he'd been told, and not obviously delaying, but Arthur read new resistance in the set of his shoulders.

Druid. Which presented a new set of problems.

And suddenly… tried to tease at the edge of a hidden memory. A flash of familiarity – maybe he'd glimpsed this boy at some point, a shared past moment? Or someone very like him? His head throbbed and he left the scouring of his memory til another time.

The boy avoided his eyes, dropping the waterskin and curling up in his blanket defensively, leaning against his own tree. Arthur shifted, feeling bruises forming on his shoulder-blade, but careful not to dislodge the cooling cloths on his face and head – not til they warmed with his body heat and proved no further relief anyway.

"So," he ventured, "a druid?"

Who might very well hate Arthur. There were many reasons to justify that, in the past. He wasn't surprised to receive a black glare – but his heart sank on hopes for the immediate future.

"Why aren't you with your clan?" he asked. The boy could hate him, but if they _needed_ each other, this could still work.

The boy twitched a shrug like he couldn't possibly care less about his clan – but he wasn't meeting Arthur's eyes.

Arthur tried again. "If you helped me, I could see to it that you were returned to your clan-"

The boy sneered disbelief, but… something made Arthur doubt the reaction was genuine, rather than affected. "You'd help me. You've killed my kind for our magic. Your father has-"

"I know," Arthur interrupted softly, "but-"

"It was my magic that knocked you from your horse," the boy blurted. "Would you still help me, knowing that?"

He hadn't denied he needed help, anyway. Or the belief that Arthur could help him.

Arthur took a deep breath, and moved his head carefully to dislodge the warming cloths, so he could look at the boy without obstruction. "I forgive you for that. Even if you don't forgive me for the wrongs I've committed against your people."

The boy stared. Then said hoarsely, "Wrongs?"

Hope stirred again in the core of Arthur's chest. "How long have you been away from your clan?" he asked.

"Nearly a year." The boy unrolled his blanket – more comfort and defense than necessary warmth – and moved forward to rinse the cloths dampening Arthur's shirt where they'd fallen. He laid them carefully – renewed cool, and welcome relief – over Arthur's head injury. Glancing around a bit furtively, as if checking on his fellows, he moved back to his blanket and tree satisfied.

Arthur was aware that the activity had decreased with the waning daylight, though the voices were still audible around them, and the campfires tended adequately. "There have been changes, since this spring," Arthur told him. "My father was ill, and I took over the regency. The consequences for magic use have been lightened considerably – justly, I believe – and one day when I'm able, I want to lift the Ban."

The boy scowled at him. "I don't believe you."

Arthur sighed. "I don't blame you. Listen, this spring I met the prince of Caerleon – he has magic, did you know that? We were together for a few weeks under extraordinary circumstances, and we became friends. He saved my life and taught me several things about magic."

"I don't believe you," the boy repeated stubbornly.

He closed his eyes and shuffled his position against the tree, clenching and unclenching his fingers to fight the numbness caused by the tight bonds at his wrists. A thought occurred to him – and he wondered if he dared take the risk. But the boy was still watching him, waiting – as if he wanted to be convinced. Under the circumstances, maybe he wanted a reason to trust Arthur over the bandits he was with, enough to risk helping him.

"My friend the prince of Caerleon," he said. "Gave me something he'd enchanted. Something I had with me. Could you sense that, somehow? Would you be able to recognize if I'm telling you the truth?"

The boy narrowed his eyes. And if Arthur was wrong, and these men found out that his sword was _special_ …

He licked his lips. "Please don't betray him, whatever you do. He trusted me with it… the sword. The sword on my saddle. The sheathe, too."

For a moment the boy held his expression of mistrust. Then he pushed himself to his feet again, and stalked past Arthur – where he couldn't watch unless he twisted himself all the way around the tree, pulling on his wrists and craning over his injured shoulder.

Did he dare take hope from the fact that the boy moved nearly soundlessly. That could be as much for fear of further punishment for leaving their prisoner unattended, as for stealth in scrutinizing a portion of the spoil he otherwise had no right to touch…

Arthur turned his head as far as he could before the discomfort became overwhelming, straining his ears. Twigs rubbed and branches creaked and leaves rustled. The several campfires popped and crackled – one of the horses whickered. Maybe Arthur's, but the bandits had three or four – for their wagon, for their leader to ride.

He listened, and heard nothing more. He waited, and the boy didn't return. He thought about trying to shift himself into a more advantageous position. If there wasn't a knife in the boy's pack, maybe there was a sharp stone close by – maybe he could at least discover a more comfortable position, and close his eyes to reduce his actual weakness with some sleep.

The dim firelight flickering and dancing around the edges of his vision was hypnotic. The susurration of the air moving through the trees of the wood was soporific. He could just close his eyes til the boy returned. He tilted his head so the warmed damp cloths fell off again, and the breeze cooled his damaged skin, newly uncovered.

Arthur didn't think he was going to be able to sleep, but he barely felt himself drifting backwards into dark oblivion.

…..*….. …..*….. …..*….. …..*….. …..*…..

Mordred guessed that Ragnor would keep Prince Arthur's sword. A prince's sword would be better-than-average quality anyway, even if he couldn't tell there was magic there – even if there wasn't magic there – and if it was a gift from another prince, it would have to be _fine_.

Did the prince of Caerleon have magic? If he'd ever heard any of the elders say that, he was sure he would have remembered. But the druids didn't concern themselves with politics much – at least the clans he'd been part of hadn't. Except to fear Uther Pendragon and his knights – and his son – as they'd remained within Camelot's borders. As far as he knew. No one had ever said to him, _now we're in_ this _kingdom, where_ this _man is king…_

Most of the others were asleep, Mordred thought, moving silently among the untended campfires that would die slowly through the night. Maybe it was best if he took the liberty of starting his own nearer the spot where Pendragon was bound. It would help keep him awake, and would make it easier to see what he was doing if the captive prince needed tending in the night. Needed waking every few hours, just so Mordred knew he still could. He sounded rational and coherent…

Except when he didn't. He'd knowingly befriended a peer with magic? Uther Pendragon's son?

Mordred paused half-behind a tree where he could see Ragnor, closest the wagon. He always slept closest the wagon; Mordred thought it was because he thought one or more of his men might be tempted to thieve from their stores, otherwise. Ragnor had been making noises about a new saddle, too, and his mare was older than Mordred. It was logical that he'd claim the newer and better prizes, and let his things pass to others…

He was right. Ragnor snored – fingers laced over his stomach, boots crossed at the ankle – against the prince's saddle, keeping the more valuable claimed items close to him and safe through his sleep. The sword-hilt jutted up from the stiff leather curves mere inches from Ragnor's head, and Mordred sidled around behind him before crouching closer to inspect the weapon where Ragnor wouldn't see him if he woke, unless the man raised himself to turn around.

Gold wire wrapped the leather hilt for a grip. The crosspiece was plain, the pommel knobbed with a serious of concentric circles. Mordred reached to rub his thumb over the smooth metal, so lightly Ragnor would never feel it – and stopped.

His whole hand tingled – and the feeling spread warmly up his elbow. It wasn't a warning, exactly, but he withdrew his hand anyway. _Not for you_ ; the feeling was as certain as it was… Noble. Lofty. Soaring high above him like an eagle above a mole.

The magic sang. It growled, and laughed, and appealed, and guarded.

Mordred's eyes blurred with tears, and he couldn't breathe properly for a moment. Did Prince Arthur truly know what he carried? The druids guarded things like this, ancient things warm with the echo of imbued magic, but he'd never felt anything so… Clear. Sharp and bright. Quick and clever and nearly _aware_.

New.

He swallowed, leaning carefully closer as if to smell, to feel on the skin of his face, like the sword was a campfire itself. _New_.

But… no one had created an artifact like this in… years. Decades, centuries. Not that he'd heard of, anyway. None of the elders he knew had ever done so in their lifetimes, anyway. From caution – or inability? He believed the later. If they could make or use such things, they could have withstood Uther Pendragon. And even the convocation of priestesses on their Isle had not managed that.

What did it mean, that a prince of Caerleon could make such a thing? Caerleon was a land of barbarians, he knew that much. They allowed magic – but maybe their magic would be as wild as they were.

A thought came to him, unbidden, and within it there was a name. A prophecy of power he'd believed impersonally, as he believed all the druidic prophecies he'd been taught, cryptic and arcane – true, but nothing to do with _him_.

Such a person could surely create such a sword.

It didn't mean that the Prince of Caerleon was Emrys, but it did make Mordred wonder, with a longing that burned in his heart, surprising him with its intensity. It was not unlike homesickness. For the clan, the tents and the family, the inclusion and belonging and love and acceptance, the magic and sense of purpose and even of… destiny.

He gazed at the sword and wondered if he dared. If he took the risk of involvement, would it change his course? Or would his destiny of destruction and isolation ruin the attempt?

…..*….. …..*….. …..*….. …..*….. …..*…..

Gwaine's guest room was opposite the hall from his mother's chamber and the rooms used by Lord Myles and his sister's family. He appreciated that neither Myles nor Siura had mentioned the proposition pairing him and Gareth at dinner, and afterward he and Myles had sat by the fire in the center of the hall getting slowly, quietly – desperately – drunk.

The children were sent to bed; Lady Doreynda could not be woken but was still breathing. Siura had promised one of the maids to replace her in the sickroom at first light and Myles had followed her to their bedchamber, fingers entwined in appreciation of anticipated comfort and rest. All the better for being shared.

Gwaine felt alone. In the middle of his childhood home, surrounded by family – invited and welcomed and forgiven – he was lonely.

"Uncle?"

One of the shadows that filled the hall materialized next to the chair where he lounged, thick-headed and heavy-hearted. Firelight gleamed orange-pale from a young face, and dark eyes flashed as Gareth shifted into a cross-legged position on the edge of the firepit, facing Gwaine and slightly lower.

"Do you really have to say _uncle_?" Gwaine asked tiredly, aware that the alcohol in his blood was going to spill over into unconsidered words. "That makes me feel old. And useless."

"Useless?" Gareth asked, surprised by the word.

"I'm not that much younger than your mother," Gwaine told him, resting his head against the chair's high back, padded with a wolf pelt. Long past time Gareth was asleep in bed, but Gwaine had spent countless nights of his own childhood sneaking about after hours. It was curiosity and energy, not mischief. "But she's got… you, and your brothers, and your sister. Your father, and this place. And what do I have to show for my life?"

Gareth blinked, evidently waiting for him to answer the rhetorical question. Gwaine meant to say _nothing_ , and couldn't quite. Because he still didn't regret his life. Because it wasn't over, and his position wasn't pitiable, and because Merlin. And Arthur.

"If I took you," he said to Gareth. "It's entirely possible that I could ruin your life. Even if I tried my hardest to do my best by you."

Gareth wasn't concerned. At his age, he probably couldn't conceive of half Gwaine's worries for him, and would scoff at the rest. He leaned forward, reaching behind him to pull a knife out of the back of his belt – Gwaine's own knife, he recognized, that had been in his pack in his room, when he'd seen it last.

"What are you planning to do with that?" he asked.

Gareth spun it in his fingers, too carelessly for Gwaine's liking, and firelight danced along the edge. "Aren't you going to ask where I got it from?" he challenged.

"You sneaked in my room and borrowed it," Gwaine said.

"Borrowed?" Gareth repeated, diverted by his choice of word. "You're not gonna accuse me of stealing?"

"Stealing implies you're going to keep it," Gwaine informed him. "Stealing implies I can't get it back from you."

"And you could?" Gareth was skeptical. Gwaine chose not to lunge forward and grab it, though he could indeed, without endangering his nephew's fingers with the blade or startling him into falling backward in the coals-and-ashes firepit. Even half-drunk. "Aren't you gonna tell me it's sharp and to be careful not to cut myself, and knives aren't playthings?"

Gwaine snorted. "Seems I'd be too late anyway – obviously someone already taught you that."

Gareth cocked his head, studying Gwaine. And for a moment he imagined how frightening it could be from the boy's perspective, to be told for the first time, he could have what he wanted, all the adventure and glory, he could earn. But he'd have to trust a stranger, and leave his home.

"I thought of something," Gareth said suddenly. "You said to tell you if I thought of a way I could trust you not to run away from me."

"Oh, yeah?" Gwaine roused slightly.

Gareth tipped the knife in his grip. "We could be blood brothers."

"Blood brothers," Gwaine repeated, uncomprehending.

"Yeah. You know, it's when you and someone else both cut your hands and let the blood mix and then you're bound forever because you share that blood."

"Dear child," Gwaine said dryly. "I hate to tell you, but we're already blood relation."

Gareth dropped his gaze to the knife. His shoulders slouched gradually, eagerness and enthusiasm draining from him and it felt like emotional lifeblood, somehow.

Gwaine sat forward abruptly. "Here, give me that."

His nephew relinquished the borrowed knife without a sound – but inhaled sharply when Gwaine laid the blade to the meaty part of his palm, at the base of his thumb, and made a neat, shallow slice. Blood welled but didn't spill, as Gwaine leaned over his knees to offer his hand and the knife to Gareth.

Who looked at him again, mouth dropped open and eyes wide.

"You want to do this, or not?" Gwaine asked, but gently.

Gareth nodded, turning his hand over and stretching it out – slowly, hesitantly. It was trembling. Gwaine could have given the knife a flick and opened a cut before Gareth could blink or flinch, or even feel it, but he didn't. He moved deliberately, laying the sharp edge to his nephew's soft little hand – giving him every chance to pull back.

He shivered. And relaxed into Gwaine's touch.

Gwaine twisted the blade slightly, withdrawing it, just enough to open the skin to a drop of blood in the same place as his own cut. Then he balanced the knife on his knee and turned Gareth's hand over, meeting his palm and feeling the blood smear between them. He held his nephew's hand firmly, and his eyes.

"Gareth of Orkan-broch, I will take you as my squire and my student til the day that I die, or you best me and win your independence. I will never leave you without explanation, I will never cause you to suffer hunger or fear or lack, without reason. I will protect you with my life and train you to be a knight to make your family and your king proud, to the best of my ability."

Gareth was still trembling. "I…" he started, then hesitated. Then continued, "I promise not to run away. Or make you mad by disobeying. Or cry, unless I can't help it. I'm gonna try and learn, and make you proud."

Gwaine had to wink hard, and clear his throat.

"Hells, boy," he said gruffly, ruffling Gareth's hair with his free hand. "You already do."

…..*….. …..*….. …..*….. …..*….. …..*…..

Mordred made his silent way back to the tree where he'd left the captive prince, only to find Pendragon had fallen into a feverish, fitful sleep. Quietly he organized a small stone-ringed fire for light, and set it ablaze with a spell.

The cooling cloths had fallen from the prince's face, but the swelling had gone down. The break in the skin was shallow, carving through the eyebrow and down the cheekbone; it looked like the worst of the injury was the bruising. Mordred retrieved the cloths from where they'd fallen on the prince's shirt, refolding them for cleanliness. He could wet them again later, if necessary.

He curled up with his blanket beneath his head and watched the light of the fire make gaunt shadows on the prince's face.

Why was he so far from Camelot, and alone?

Mordred blinked and dozed, unused to deep or long periods of sleep due to the character and restlessness of the men who'd surrounded him since his banishment from the clans going on a year, now. Nightmare images and fears roused him periodically to awareness of his physical condition, and often to sitting or standing, alert to every aspect of his location til he was satisfied there was no immediate danger. This night it meant he could add sticks to his fire to keep the darkness back from the space he shared with Arthur Pendragon.

It was the last watch of the night when Mordred's charge opened his eyes and blinked away most of his sleep-lethargy. Mordred watched him a moment; he'd stirred during the night, uncomfortable but exhausted, and that had been enough to reassure Mordred that the blow to his head wasn't pulling him into an unconsciousness too deep to wake from, again.

The prince shifted, focusing on the details of the wood around him – his unshod feet – realizing his bonds again, wincing over his aches and pains. Then he looked at Mordred. " 'S nearly dawn, huh?" he rasped.

Mordred didn't sit up. "Your sword was made from magic."

Arthur went still in the middle of his attempts to find a better position. "Yeah."

"Who did that?"

And why? And what did it mean for Mordred? Was he obligated to try to help the prince escape? What if Ragnor and the others caught them? If he actually left the bandits, what would come next? Would he be abandoned and alone? Would he be included in yet another company where he didn't belong and wasn't truly wanted?

"My friend, the prince of-"

"What's his name?" Mordred interrupted. Almost hoping to hear the one that had come to his mind, inspecting the astounding weapon captured with Arthur. Then he would be obligated, even though he was only an exiled druid – and at least then he wouldn't have to choose, and potentially fail.

"His name's Merlin." By the part of his expression unmarred by blood and bruises, Arthur found the question unusual. And if he saw Mordred's disappointment, that was curious, too. But he didn't ask for Mordred's reasons, he simply added, "He's not that far from here, actually, we were traveling together til midmorning yesterday. I wish he was here."

An idea sparked. Maybe Mordred didn't have to choose, or act, or risk. Maybe there was a way he could offer Arthur his freedom without involving himself in any perceptible way.

Arthur was still grumbling to himself, glancing around as a few of the men were beginning to move about. "Don't know how I'm going to get out of this mess. Alone and unaided…"

"I'll help you," Mordred said quietly, pushing himself up on his elbow. Scrunching his legs under him, though it gathered dirt and bits of leaf on his blanket.

"How?" Arthur said, grumpily incredulous. "It's too late, now. They're waking, and we'll be surrounded by Saxons in Ismere tonight."

"I can delay them if you play along," Mordred said. His heart was thudding in his chest. "You can't fight them. You can't outrun or outride them-"

"Thanks for the reminder," Arthur said sourly.

"-And if I helped you try, they'd kill me too." Mordred watched Arthur's eyes. He knew the prince had considered telling him about the sword a risk – the least Mordred could do was offer a trust in return. "I can try to reach your friend Merlin. If he hears me, he'll come to help you escape, won't he?"

Arthur straightened away from the tree trunk he'd leaned against all night. "If there isn't a better opportunity today – or tonight… then at least I'd be in Ismere, if he didn't come…"

Why did the prince of Camelot want to be in Ismere? If they meant to oppose the Saxons more forcefully, wouldn't they send scouts or knights?

"Yes." Arthur gave him a decisive nod. "Yes, please. Do try to contact my friend."

Mordred crossed his legs and cuddled his elbows to his middle, condensing himself physically as if that would help concentrate the potency of his magic. _Merlin!_ he called.

Not a scream, or a bellow, but a message, as if he tied the word to the shaft of an arrow and sent it winging in the single correct direction, fletching whistling on the wind and unerringly reaching its target.

 _Merlin!_

…..*….. …..*….. …..*….. …..*….. …..*…..

Merlin lay on his bed – thin straw pad with his mother's warmth at his back; wide feather-mattress and his wife just out of reach; rolled blanket in a nook of a cave in the foothills of the mountains – and did his best to ignore the voice importuning him.

Repeating his name plaintively – _Merlin… Merlin!_

 _It's not yet dawn_ , he responded crossly. He wanted to keep sleeping, and in his hazy half-awake state, he remembered how slow and difficult had been the going in the mountain foothills, compared to the better-known lands of Caerleon. Not exactly flat, but… not like this.

More than once he'd been forced to spend time and effort and ground seeking a new way forward for himself and his mount. Down too steep of a drop, blocked by too steep of a rise…

 _Merlin!_

And his goal, remembered now that sleep was receding – the more he tried to grasp and keep it, the more he was aware that he was trying, and that made failure inevitable. A harsh sigh scraped from his throat as he sat up in his blanket, giving up. He could sense the proximity of his gelding, sharing their cave – little more than a scoop out of the hillside, under the overhang of a slate shelf – with comfortable horsey warmth.

Dragon. And father. And so many times yesterday he'd felt himself on the verge of connection to the ancient and powerful magic hiding somewhere among the peaks and valleys ahead of him.

Peak more than valley, if he had to guess. A vantage point with clear, cold lines of sight all around. And since a dragon could fly, his 'lord didn't necessarily have to live close to the established dwellings of other men.

He rolled to his feet, giving his blanket a shake before matching its corners and folding it in on itself to tie behind his saddle. It was a different sort of ache and weariness than simply riding long distances at pushed paces, this sort of search-and-search-again way of traveling. Did he want to bother yet with breakfast, or ride a few hours before stopping? There weren't many trees anymore, which meant very little by way of firewood and though he could cook over a magical flame, it was an exhausting expenditure at a time when he was tiring himself out physically, too. He had supplies for a fortnight, and if he hadn't found his father by then he'd have to retreat and re-supply…

 _Merlin!_

 __He whirled, kneeling and reaching for his ring-studded leather breastplate, his sword in the sheathe sewn across the back of it, before he realized he hadn't really heard the voice. But it had been years since he'd done this, and never with a-

 _Who are you?_ he demanded of the stranger intruding into his thoughts.

Suspected hope rose sharply – what if it was – before the response convinced him, it was a young voice. Not the one he sought, then.

 _Your friend needs you. Your friend, Prince Arthur, he's been taken by men who would sell him as a Saxon slave._

"Dammit!" Merlin pushed to his feet and stalked out of his nook, facing west. He'd glimpsed the dark tower of Ismere, rising square amidst rounded hills, still slightly north of him as he'd angled away from Arthur's path rather than heading in a direction perfectly opposite.

 _How do I know you're telling the truth?_ he questioned.

 _Why would I lie to you?_

 _Who are you, a druid?_ he sent back, wary and unconvinced. _Why would you help Arthur Pendragon?_

 _Because of the sword you gave him._

"Damn _it_." He cursed again, more emphatically, believing the voice instinctively; Arthur wouldn't have let that information slip to someone he didn't trust. Damn his pride and his stupid codified quest. Alone and un-bloody-aided.

 _Where?_

 _We'll be in Ismere by dark._

If he backtracked, it would take longer to catch up with Arthur's path than a single day. If he cut due west out of the foothills again, he might intercept them before they reached the fortress claimed more or less by Saxons.

 _I'm on my way._

He threw on his breastplate, fastening it feverishly before flinging his saddle over the gelding's back. The animal flinched, stamping a hoof, and Merlin soothed him verbally, fingers flying over buckle and strap. And when he had led him from the shallow cave, mounted and pulled the gelding's head to the west, Merlin was aware of another voice, rumbling softly and menacingly through his subconscious.

 _Merlin…_

He pressed his heels to his horse's flanks, determined to hurry whenever he was able. Maybe it was worthwhile to set his magic hunting for a path through, as it couldn't always in seeking the dragon and Lord Balinor. That sort of path-finding spell didn't function without a fixed geographical goal.

 _Merlin!…_

It was an ancient voice, and he clenched his teeth against involuntary rattling. It was a warning, and ominous – it wanted no response from him, no help or aid… only obedience.

Desist from this path. Seek another – former, future…

He ignored the voice.

Arthur needed him, and he would not abandon his friend. He wouldn't lose him, not to Saxons nor to whoever had called to him with magic, whatever their motive might be.

 _I'm on my way_ , he repeated, and knew that both persons had heard him.

 _Merlin_ … soft hiss vibrating with outrage.

 _Hurry_ , the other whispered, vulnerable and nervous. _Hurry_ …


	7. The Dragon's Ire

**Chapter 7: The Dragon's Ire…**

Balinor jolted awake in the gray pre-dawn to the sound and tremble of Kilgarrah's subtle but potent wrath.

He'd fallen asleep in the open, stretched in an out-of-the-way corner of the dragon's chosen eyrie, head pillowed on his cloak and contemplating the mysteries of the stars. Now Kilgarrah's wordless irritation shuddered through his bones, through his teeth and joints and the very rock and earth beneath him, bringing him fully awake in seconds, but confused.

"What?" he blurted, stumbling to his feet on uncertain footing, trying to clear his vision which was nowhere near as keen as the dragon's inhuman senses, heightened with innate magic. "What is it? What's wrong? Something's happened?"

"A shift in destiny," Kilgarrah growled, tense over his haunches, chin nearly to the ground and pointed almost due west, beyond the absolute peak still above them. "A choice that _changes_ …"

"Changes what?" Balinor prompted, baffled.

"The future."

Balinor's eyes went wide on their own, sleep forgotten. "I didn't think that was possible."

"Those who are strong or favored enough may see ahead to the future planned by the gods," Kilgarrah said, still intent upon whatever point he watched. "Only the very strongest may successfully step outside the path set before their feet at birth – and when that happens, the future must… rearrange. To accommodate."

"The strongest in magic?" Balinor asked, suspecting the reasons for the neglect of this supplement to the topic in his studies as a youth.

Perhaps men who believed change impossible in any case never tried to shift their path, and so it wasn't done. Perhaps the dragons themselves considered mankind too weak in comparison to affect such change, and tacitly discouraged it by avoiding mention of the possibility. Or maybe it happened so rarely, that someone was born with the potential and grew and received the training that would shape and focus that potential into the realization of such power necessary for those shifts in destiny…

Kilgarrah grumbled in his chest. "Not magic, necessarily. It is more a quality of the… will. Of the heart. But he walks the razor's edge of ruin and destruction and doom, offering trust and aid to an enemy…"

Balinor felt an old ache at the words, remembering those defining moments of his own life. Trust and aid to an enemy, when the king of Camelot said to him, _I want to meet with the Great Dragon to discuss terms of peace…_

"Who?" he said absently.

Kilgarrah paid him no attention. "And he ignored me."

"He who?" Balinor said more insistently, frowning. Kilgarrah's complaint sounded as if he were recently offended, but the dragons only spoke to the minds of those humans who were of dragonlord blood.

The dragon growled again to himself and Balinor sighed, resigned to the fact that the dragon wouldn't answer unless it suited his own interest, somehow.

Anyway, maybe it wasn't a human _he_ who'd ignored the great beast. There were other beings of magic loose in Albion who meddled in the destiny of the land, also.

…..*….. …..*….. …..*….. …..*….. …..*…..

Arthur had scant seconds to react – to control his reaction – after the boy's softly-spoken report, "He says he's coming."

Before the man who'd spoken to him after his capture – Ragnor, according to his young ally – was kicking at him, demanding his attention with sarcasm and energy.

"So you survived the night! Well done! We want to leave soon, so – up on your feet, you have to walk!"

Two others seized Arthur from behind, yanking painfully on his bound arms and injured shoulder, as the dark-haired boy protested. "Ragnor, I don't think he can – I don't think he should-"

At his full height, Arthur found the throbbing tension in his skull intensify unbearably, and balance was pulling him down and to the side, as if gravity itself was askew. His brain seemed anxious to trade places with his stomach and he pitched to his knees, retching helplessly. He'd only had water since his noon-meal of the previous day, but his body wasn't satisfied til he'd spat out several strings of yellow bile also. He was shivering uncontrollably and couldn't understand how his skull hadn't split wide open. That was what it felt like.

"…I think because of the blow to his head?" a young scared voice was saying. Followed by a sharp sound, and a reactive cry.

Arthur controlled his breathing and stared at his knees, willing his eyes to focus.

"Come on, Mordred," another man said coaxingly. "We'll give you whatever you want for a breakfast, and an extra – two hours, say? And maybe a share for you of his price when we sell 'im."

"Then I need all morning," the boy said, sounding upset and defiant at once.

Mordred. That name, and the familiarity Arthur's head had ached too much to explore, connected – and he remembered.

The little boy alone and wounded after Arthur could not convince King Uther to spare the druid captured in the marketplace. Just in town for supplies, and using magic only for self-defense and escape. And the child left feverish and frightened and alone in the dungeon, dazed and disbelieving when Arthur unlocked his cell and said, _Hurry, follow me…_

Out to the forest to meet the others, bravely showing themselves to the prince of Camelot to reclaim one of their own…

"Hurry, follow me," he heard himself say thickly, and raised his eyes.

Mordred was crouched near him, pale but for a red mark on his face. He dropped his eyes from the other men to meet Arthur's, realizing that Arthur recognized him, too, which seemed only to unsettle him more.

"What was that?" one of the bandits asked.

"He's hallucinating now," Mordred blurted, returning his attention to the men on their feet around them. "I'm sorry for hitting him too hard, but you _said_ -"

"You've got three hours til midmorning," Ragnor decided. "He'll walk or we'll drag him, and we won't stop at noon. I want to be in Ismere tonight."

The others grumped and harrumphed as they stalked and scuffed away, suddenly bored if they weren't going to move out of camp imminently, once again leaving them tacitly if not actually alone. Arthur shuffled away from his little puddle of vomit, sore and stiff and trying to lean against the tree where it wouldn't hurt.

"I'll get them to make you some porridge," Mordred leaned close to say in a low voice. "Are you – did you do that on purpose?"

Because they had talked about deliberately delaying the bandits so Merlin would have a chance to reach them. Arthur said, "I'll be fine. I'll live – and if we can't get them to agree to another delay, I'll walk."

The worry cleared from Mordred's face; he pushed to his feet and trotted away, leaving Arthur achy and weak and miserable. He decided to focus on the mystery of Mordred's predicament, rather than his own. How had the boy gotten from the refuge of the druid's care, to the casual abuse of this group of bandits?

 _I have no one…_

By the time the druid boy returned with two steaming bowls in hand, Arthur's headache had calmed somewhat to a dull throb that allowed him to focus his vision and move around a bit without resulting dizziness. In three hours he'd have to be on his feet and moving…

"I can't untie you," Mordred said apologetically, hunkering down next to Arthur. "And they wouldn't give me an extra spoon."

"Thank you," Arthur said. "Beggars can't be choosers."

Mordred gave him the first spoonful. It was hot, but lumpy and flavorless, and Arthur swallowed the mouthful a bit at a time, wary of provoking the head-splitting nausea again. He shook his head over another offered mouthful, and watched Mordred scoop up two in quick succession, seemingly unbothered by the poor quality of his breakfast.

"So, Mordred," he said, catching the wary flick of the boy's glance. "Is that why you didn't tell me your name? You didn't want me to remember you and demand you repay me, risking your life to release me?"

The boy scraped sullenly at the bottom of the bowl. "I didn't know if you'd remember me. Whether I told you my name or not."

Perhaps it was preferable to him to think of withholding identity, than to realize himself unremarkable yet again, if Arthur didn't share his recollection of their meeting. Arthur pitied him – but knew he wouldn't want expressions of pity from anyone.

"I'm glad to know you recovered from your wound, at that time," Arthur offered instead. "And I am sorry about not being able to save the man who was caught with you, that day. Was he your father?"

"No," Mordred said shortly, eyes on the spoonful he was conveying to Arthur's mouth.

Arthur took the hint, and allowed himself to be fed the rest of the cooling bowl of porridge, slowly and silently. They had time, after all.

…..*….. …..*….. …..*….. …..*….. …..*…..

Morgana shifted restlessly in her seat, allowing the writing on the steward's report in front of her to blur in her vision. It failed to hold her attention partly because she was tired – her dreams a collection of unrecollected strain – and partly because she was unhappy not to know a definite cause of her unrest.

She pushed her chair back and rose, catching the eye of her youthful attendant, the daughter of an unlanded knight with half Gwen's fire and courage and intelligence.

"Find Finna and have her meet me in my chambers as soon as possible," she ordered, not waiting to watch the girl bob a curtsy and head for another doorway.

Finna was either in the kitchens or the infirmary, she supposed, stalking back to her chamber herself. Unless Morgana had very bad luck in timing, and she'd left Trevena's keep to replenish her stock of the herbs and roots she used to supplement her own magic in their instruction together.

If she had to guess, she'd say that the older woman had been schooled far more extensively than Morgause had been. Just a trick of fate, maybe, that her birth had come early enough before Uther's Purge that she'd been able to complete childhood training with the druids as well as several levels with the priestesses of the Isle before its fall had decimated and scattered the hierarchy of sorceresses and lost so many practical resources to destruction and opportunism. But Finna taught her more every week than she'd learned in a year watching Morgause in Cenred's castle.

It wasn't fair, probably. Morgause hadn't enjoyed much of a chance at structured learning like this before she was forced to finish growing up as a fugitive. And Morgana was very nearly certain that her older sister wouldn't consent any longer to place herself under a tutor, even if Morgana could contact her and offer.

Even if Finna herself would agree to teach someone like Morgause, who probably wouldn't reconsider her personal standards of right and wrong and goal and expediency.

Even if Arthur would agree to allow Morgause within the boundaries of Camelot, were Finna to agree to instruct and Morgause to submit…

Morgana sighed, pushing open the door to her chamber and leaving it ajar behind her, hoping her tutor wasn't far behind. At least the maid who tended the quarters she and Acollyn shared had left behind a full pitcher of clean water when she finished with her duties. Morgana was still pouring into the basin when Finna appeared at the door, eyes wide with alert curiosity.

"My lady?" she said, closing the door behind her. "You wish another lesson?"

Morgana didn't do well with a set schedule. That made her impatient; she wanted to learn magic when she felt like it, and quit when she didn't, whether she'd mastered some technique or totally failed to accomplish anything.

"I was hoping we could add the element of sound to the scrying spell," Morgana said.

Finna hummed, and joined her at the table. "Is there any reason in particular for your urgency?"

Morgana twitched her shoulders, watching the ripples calm in the basin, and careful not to bump or jostle the table in the meantime. "I don't know," she admitted, a bit cross over that fact. "I didn't remember any specific images from my nightmares, only this sense of… foreboding."

Usually she wore the bracelet Morgause had given her to block the images, if for no other reason than to give herself – and by extension, the husband content to curl around her and snore every night in their shared bed – an uninterrupted night. But her concerns for her sister and for Arthur had her grasping for straws of information from any direction, even if it was personally uncomfortable.

"Ah." Her tutor was round and sweet and mild, but her demeanor of childlike innocence covered deep and uncomplicated wisdom. "Is that sense centered around a person, or a place?"

Morgana considered, because usually she didn't have the energy or concentration necessary for a second scrying in one day. That would come in time, Finna assured her, as her gift developed and grew, and her control firmed.

"I am worried about Arthur," she said. "He's on his knight's quest. That's mean to be alone and unaided, so if anything untoward befell him, I don't know when we would receive word, if ever. So we could scry him… but my thoughts turn often toward my sister as well. The last time I scryed her, she was in company with Saxons, which cannot mean anything good."

"Shall we scry your sister, then, and see if we can hear as well as see?" Finna suggested, and Morgana felt herself instinctively agreeing, without a conscious choice.

" _Eowath me min sweostor nu_."

" _Samod hlyst_ ," Finna added, her voice soft and smooth.

Morgana repeated the phrase without so much as pausing for breath. _Samod_ she knew was a connecting word, implying addition; she hoped she pronounced the second word for hearing closely enough for this to work…

There was her sister. Dressed in cloak and trousers and boots, but without the chainmail, her blonde ringlets shining in torchlight. She was creeping down a corridor… no. The wall was not stone block, but rough unquarried natural bedrock. A cave, then. But where? And what was she… searching for?

Morgana could not see if she had any companions, Saxon or otherwise. There was no occasion for sound to clarify the scene as she'd hoped and Morgana almost released the scrying spell in dissatisfaction.

But her sister paused and straightened like a hunting dog scenting prey, and the reflected torchlight was _blue_.

A figure moved indistinctly in the depths of the tunnel – cavern? – beyond her sister, and Morgause spoke. " _Hold. I command thee by_ -"

Morgana was distracted by Finna's sudden intake of breath.

"Good _gods_ ," her tutor said blankly, and Morgana had never heard the placid older woman sound so shocked.

"What?" Morgana demanded, not daring to lift her eyes from the basin-water's reflection. Finna didn't answer, and in the silence Morgana could hear the faint, small voice of her sister speaking again.

"… _Have searched for you for many months. I was told you can answer any question with absolute truth_."

" _I can_."

The voice was clipped, gravelly, as if the speaker was short of breath. As if the mouth that spoke was misshapen, or… not quite human. Morgana could see little more than the blue glow and shadow, and a chill raced a shiver up her spine.

" _I need to know how to defeat a prince_."

Morgana held her concentration – but moved her hand to grasp Finna's, also. Arthur…

" _The prince of Caerleon_ ," Morgause went on.

Hells, that wasn't any better.

" _He who is of magic. I can find no substantive advantage over him of skill or power or knowledge, so I must know this of you. How do I break him_?"

Pause. Morgana's throat was thick with shame and regret, knowing Finna heard every word. Knowing she'd have to tell Acollyn, and send a message warning Merlin…

" _The one you know as Merlin, prince of Caerleon. His heart and will may be broken at the death of his destiny's partner_."

"His destiny's partner?" Morgana whispered. That was a strange way to say it.

" _The prince was wed this spring_ ," Morgause continued, intent. " _That is the person you speak of? His wife_?"

A pretty girl with glowing brown curls and a sweet smile and a fascinating – if at times horribly so – past. With surprising and unexpected strength and humility, not unlike Merlin himself.

The figure that moved with the blue glow didn't answer, but retreated – swiftly or possibly magically. Morgana watched Morgause consider pursuit again, and decide against it. Instead she turned in the bedrock passage and Morgana realized half a dozen Saxons or more had followed her.

" _Ready your men_ ," she ordered. " _We ride for Caerleon immediately_."

There were protests that echoed shrilly through the scry-spell. " _Immediately, my lady? Can it not wait til the morning - dawn, or first light_?"

Morgana straightened, letting the magic dissipate with a reflective ripple of the water in the basin. The look on Finna's face was one she'd never seen her guileless tutor wear.

"My sister-" she began, without any clear idea of what excuse she might make, only that she felt both exasperated with and defensive of her kin. Morgause was hurt and lost and… _misguided_ would be a good description, if Morgause could be said to be guided at all.

"Has found the Diamair of Ismere," Finna breathed, her eyes round and fixed upon some point in the middle of the air, deep within her mind or memories.

"Who?" Morgana said, diverted. "What?"

"A creature of myth," Finna said in the same mystical tone of voice. "Of legend. An enduring watcher of the race of men. The key to all knowledge."

"So what she said was the truth?" Morgana asked.

Finna blinked and focused on her, a wrinkle appearing between her brows, but all she said was, " _She_?"

He? It? Morgana decided, "I've got to find Acollyn. We've got to send a warning to Beckon Cove."

…..*….. …..*….. …..*….. …..*….. …..*…..

Mordred kept his distance from the cart and Arthur, as they traveled and the sun passed its zenith overhead, its strength diminishing as the world died away from summer toward autumn and eventually winter.

The prince's hands had been tied in front of him for ease of movement without complete release, and a long rope connected his bound wrists to the cart. He was then left to jog or walk or stumble – or be dragged – at the pace Ragnor set and Fendulf on the driver's seat of the wagon followed. Mostly, as Mordred cast a wary occasional glance his way, Arthur seemed to march, with his head up. If he lost his balance it was momentarily, and if he felt pain he didn't show it, though Mordred grimaced to himself more than once at the sight of the bruising spreading over the left side of his face.

It looked worse the second day, he reminded himself, before it started to heal.

Though it worried him that Arthur's friend Merlin – another prince, and that of the barbarian kingdom of Caerleon – might arrive and take exception at what Mordred had done to his friend, he worried equally that the sorcerer who'd enchanted the sword might not reach them in time.

Theoff had inherited Ragnor's old mare, and had amused himself in scouting ahead. Mordred understood from the loud and careless discussion of the band surrounding the wagon in a loose formation, that the black square shape of their destination had been sighted, and they anticipated reaching the fortress before it became necessary to stop and cook dinner. Whether or not they would produce this repast from their dwindling and uninspiring stores or take the time to hunt fresh meat or begin at once to trade with the Saxons, was a matter of dispute.

Mordred took advantage of the distraction to stretch his tired legs a bit more at every stride and so to catch up with the wagon and the prince so slowly no one took much note.

Arthur spared him a glance before redirecting his gaze to the ground between his feet and the back of the wagon. He looked a little less steady, up close – his eyes were glassy, his face pale where it wasn't bruised, his golden hair nearly brown with dirt and sweat. Though he was breathing in panting breaths, they were even and controlled, and he hadn't fallen once.

Mordred could think of nothing to say that was important enough to require him to tramp alongside the prince when no one else had anything to occupy their attention, and might grow curious.

"How is your head?" he settled on. No one had commended him for his efforts with their prize – and no one would – and while he knew the prince must have stamina as well as tenacity, he was relieved and a little proud of himself to see that his charge had traveled so far, so well.

"Fine," Arthur said shortly, his nostrils flaring with his quickened inhalation. "If you don't mind, though, I'll save my breath for walking."

"They say we'll see Ismere soon," Mordred ventured. "They say it's less than five leagues, now."

Arthur made a noncommittal noise. Mordred watched Fendulf's back in the driver's seat, sent a quick glance around to see that no one was taking special notice.

"Then where's your friend?" he hissed.

Maybe it was time for Arthur to pretend to be unable to go further without a rest. Though there was a risk they'd get rough in trying to persuade him he could, the last thing Mordred wanted was for a powerful sorcerer to arrive too late to catch them before they entered Ismere, and be doubly angry with him.

Arthur gave him a look from the corner of his eye. "Wouldn't you know that. Better than I would?"

Oh. Mordred looked at him dumbly, stumbling over a rock hidden in a tuft of grass. He could call to Prince Merlin again and ask-

"Whoa!" Fendulf called, abruptly reining in.

Mordred glanced around to see the others alert to something ahead of them, fingering weapons but not drawing them, moving closer with expressions of… interest. Arthur bent over his knees, huffing deliberately. His hands were trembling. Mordred drifted sideways to try to see around Fendulf, high on the driver's seat of the wagon.

There was the curve of the hill behind which, the others had said, lay the tower of Ismere. And a stone's hard throw ahead of them in their path, a rider sat his horse sideways, waiting and watching them approach him.

…..*….. …..*….. …..*….. …..*….. …..*…..

Merlin shifted his weight slightly, feeling the knife down his left boot as he studied each of the men and the group as a whole - weapons, and movement, and placement. The bearded man he took to be the leader was ahead of the wagon, mounted on Arthur's horse – the confirmation he needed that this was the group that had taken his friend captive, if there were any other such bands roving these foothills. He was aware that another rider ranged further to the west; he marked the driver, and everyone else on foot.

He couldn't immediately identify Arthur, but there was someone close behind the wagon that wasn't moving out for a clear look with curious aggression, the way the rest were. He fingered the hilt of the dagger in his right hand, down his side where they couldn't see, and let his left hand rest casually on his thigh. They'd see his sword-hilt over his shoulder, that he hadn't yet drawn, and they'd imagine that outnumbering him meant they had the obvious advantage and they wouldn't consider him an immediate threat and act accordingly.

"Who're you?" the leader demanded, reining in his horse at fifteen paces or so. "What do you want? You're not a Saxon…"

"I'm not," Merlin agreed pleasantly. "I'm a friend of the man who owns that horse you're riding. I'd like him back, and I'm sure he'd like his horse back." And the sword, he could see it from here; his fingers tightened into a fist at the thought of someone else possessing or using it.

"I'm sure," the leader hollered back, cocky and posturing for the sake of his men – which meant he wasn't certain of their unswerving loyalty, "that you're in no position to make demands, stranger."

"How about to make an offer?" Merlin returned. "You tell me what price you were going to ask for him. I'll pay you half that, and let you live."

The leader barked an incredulous laugh. He turned to survey his band as an excuse for putting his hand on the hilt of Arthur's sword-

Merlin's heart smoldered in his chest.

-And three of the dozen or so bandits nocked arrows to their longbows, prowling forward.

He wasn't worried for himself. His _aweardian_ protection spell meant they couldn't seriously injure him unless there was some rare accident – he was worried they'd go for Arthur before he was close enough to-

The leader gave a shout and swung his arm forward and five things happened nearly all at once.

The driver of the cart abandoned his reins, clambering over the back of the seat, clearly intent on reaching the man behind, if that was indeed Arthur.

The leader kicked Arthur's horse into a charge toward Merlin, drawing the sword.

Three arrows simultaneously whistled a call for Merlin's blood.

He kicked free of his stirrups, allowing himself to tumble to the ground in ducking the arrows.

And as he swung forward and down, he flung the dagger in his right hand – past the leader galloping down on him, blade over hilt, to plunge nine inches of steel in the back of the wagon-driver. Guided by magic, impossible to miss. Arching, the man plummeted over the side of the wagon, and now all the rest were reacting with blind rage, beginning to stampeded toward him – which still left Arthur between him and half the band.

Merlin wasn't too concerned that his attempt at peaceful diplomacy had failed. They'd ambushed his friend. They'd hurt Arthur; they'd made him a captive; they would have made him a slave.

That was impossible. That was unforgiveable.

He strode forward, snatching his second dagger from his left boot in his off hand. Timing his footsteps in watching the blade he'd crafted swing toward him in the hand of the bandit leader – he ducked, then whirled and leaped up. Grabbing the man's wrist just upward from the sword-hilt and stabbing his dagger into the side of the man's neck – using that leverage and his own weight to pull him down from the saddle.

Arthur's horse snorted and kicked, and the dying man gurgled, and Merlin crouched to retrieve the sword.

And came up facing the three of the bandits who'd reached him first. Fine by him. His blood was growling in his ears, eager for the challenge, even though they weren't really very good.

Spin around the primary thrust from the one on the left, stab through his ribs and shove him against his fellow in the middle – spin round and duck the swing of his ax, and - use a bit of magic to increase the swing so the bandit chopped deeply into the neck of the third, trying to get at Merlin from behind the ax-man.

And there were more bearing down on him and he couldn't see Arthur clearly.

He stepped into the next ripple of roaring bandits, blocking sword-strikes with Arthur's sword in his right hand and his dagger in his left – sliding beneath the crossed blades and abandoning those opponents to sprint past the wagon.

The one he thought was Arthur, was Arthur. Crouched down behind the wagon struggling with rope at his wrists – blood on his face – and there were eight or nine others, grimly intent on their approach from behind and both sides.

He couldn't maintain his position there, not alone against so many. If he couldn't manage some sort of bottleneck and take one or two at a time, shielding Arthur with his body, then he needed space to attract them all to him, leaving his friend free and clear of the circle of combat.

Growling aloud, Merlin thrust Arthur's sword down into the ground near enough for him to grasp and leaped forward, away from the wagon.

Shoulder into the belly of the nearest one, flipping him over his shoulder to clear his way into the center of the bandits, feeling for the hilt behind his neck. They adjusted to his rush, converging on him with chaotic menace.

Fury made him feel like he had become a different man entirely. He grinned, pivoting on one heel, and taunted them, "Come on, then!"

…..*….. …..*….. …..*….. …..*….. …..*…..

Arthur's head was throbbing again, and his vision going blurry in spots and at random moments. He had to fight the urge to collapse to his knees when the wagon stopped and the tension on the dragging rope at his wrists eased.

It mattered if they saw his weakness.

Why did it matter? Didn't he want them to underestimate him and neglect him which would then made his eventual escape easier. Right? Or – wait, he was waiting on Merlin for rescue – or for distraction…

If only he could think clearly.

He was aware of the druid boy moving away, curiously clearing the bulk of the wagon to see ahead, to see why they'd stopped. Arthur found he didn't much care…

Til a bloodcurdling yell rent the air, followed closely by multiple others-

War-cries.

Arthur bolted upright as the driver of the wagon came scrambling back over the cargo, knife in his hand and fear in his eyes – focused on Arthur with deadly intent.

He braced himself to dodge the bandit's lunge – the only way he could hope to fight him and win. But the man's body jerked straight, chin up – before toppling lifelessly over the side of the wagon.

Arthur took one long step to crouch behind the right rear wheel, spotting the bandits who'd been traveling on that flank all rush forward. He stretched toward the prone body, hoping to appropriate the knife – did he recognize it? – protruding from a bloody rent in the back of the man's jacket. His rope wasn't long enough.

"Get up!" he shouted to the horse, hoping to cause the wagon to roll forward though no hand directed the reins.

The animal was too nervous, backing rather than moving forward, and Arthur had to scramble himself to avoid losing the lead on his wrists under the wheel, or having some part of him run over. Dodging behind the wagon, he took in at a glance the rest of the bandit troop racing to join whatever conflict had started. Which put him in immediate danger – they'd assume he'd at least take the chance to try to escape, and they weren't wrong.

"Mordred!" he shouted, catching the attention of the druid boy, who'd taken three steps to the left, and appeared to be frozen in shock. "Mordred! Your sword!"

Hells, the bandits were going to reach him first.

The boy looked at him, making the leap of logic, and clumsily drew the blade at his belt, darting back to join Arthur at the back of the wagon. Arthur took two steps and joined him, angling to be able to saw the bonds at his wrists against the edge of the boy's sword.

The moment the cords parted, he alerted to someone's swift approach from behind, from the north, and he spun in a defensive crouch, reaching to take temporary ownership of Mordred's sword as better-than-nothing.

But it was Merlin who charged past the rear corner of the unstable wagon – ring-studded leather breastplate, indigo shirtsleeves, sword and dagger – and a look on his face that reminded Arthur of the night Cenred had attacked Camelot, and the other prince had fought to defend him.

Merlin barely hesitated. He flung the sword – the one he'd forged for Arthur personally - downward to stick quivering in the earth within Arthur's reach, then darted forward into the thick of the bandits to the rear of the wagon, armed only with his dagger. Ducking low to knock a man clear over his shoulder and off his feet with the momentum of his charge, and stretching back to draw his own sword from behind his shoulder.

Arthur scooped up his sword that Merlin had returned to his possession – and it came to his hand with a feeling of relief – and turned first to see to Mordred's safety.

"Get back, get down!" he ordered, motioning for Mordred to crouch under the wagon, shielded by the rear left wheel. He ducked himself as another pair of bandits pounded past the wagon, intent on their attacker-

Merlin, fighting half a dozen of them on his own.

Arthur moved to go to him, to help him, to fight with him, and Mordred snatched at his sleeve. "He can fight them!" the boy blurted, wide-eyed but otherwise outwardly calm. "He can kill them all, by himself."

Two more were down. None of the bandits were backing off, incensed by the attack and the decrease in their numbers and the determination not to be bested by one man. He probably could kill all dozen, Arthur realized.

But he shouldn't. It would change him.

He firmed his grip and rushed the nearest man, roaring to give him fair warning to defend himself, before Arthur cut him down.

…..*….. …..*….. …..*….. …..*….. …..*…..

Mordred couldn't see much of the fight to the front of the wagon. He was aware of how these skirmishes often happened too fast for conscious thought, and his reaction was still to hide and ready his magic for self-defense, more often than it was to draw his sword and use it.

But the moment he saw the prince of Caerleon seemed to _stop_ , and _last_. And the moments that followed, drew out in fascinating leisure.

A barbarian of Caerleon's kingdom, clearly. By his dress, and by his ferocity and fearlessness. Mordred had never seen anyone fight like that, charge into the middle of half a dozen armed men all screaming for his blood – willingly, almost eagerly.

He'd never seen the prince of Camelot fight either, but he knew Arthur was both weakened and unsteady from the ambush, from the night spent tied and sitting leaning against a tree, from more than half a day being pulled along behind the wagon. It was an instinct to hold Arthur back from the fight, and one whose motives he didn't pause to examine.

"He can fight them," Mordred urged. "He can kill them all, by himself."

The other prince – Merlin was his name, but that was a familiarity that Mordred wouldn't be allowed anymore – ducked and danced and parried, sword in one hand darting to slash and retreating to guard, and his other hand-

Because his dagger was lodged in the ribs of someone who'd fallen motionless on the ground-

Flung magic. Shoving an opponent back who'd dared strike at the prince-warrior's back. Closing in a fist to mime a grip on someone else's upraised battle-ax to yank it forward, unbalancing the attacker. Flicked to harmlessly bend the courses of two threatening arrows.

An overwhelming wave of fierce jealousy and longing flooded Mordred's chest, almost choking him with intensity.

If only he could have completed the spell with Kara and learned that his destiny was to be _that_. A formidable, fearless warrior wielding steel and magic with such brutal grace and skill.

Mordred almost didn't notice when Arthur left his side and rushed to join the fray. He was dry-mouthed and taut with excited anticipation, watching Prince Merlin of Caerleon. And even if he wasn't Emrys-

Arthur was very good with his blade also, prior injury notwithstanding. He stabbed and ducked and was inside the circle of bandits, his back to Caerleon's back and that was crazy, wasn't it, a Pendragon fighting with a sorcerer.

Mordred half-expected some of the men who'd ignored him nearly a year – who'd hidden themselves along forest tracks to ambush the unwary and enjoy an easy slaughter – cowards? – to turn and run. Even, to turn and run towards him and the wagon of supplies and the few skittish horses, to snatch what valuables they could for themselves before taking to their heels permanently. But it seemed they were intent on their murderous rage and revenge, more than any instinct of self-preservation. Even Theoff on Ragnor's old mare spurred his reluctant, panicky mount as if to ride down the pair of princes-

"Look out!" Mordred shrieked, though probably they couldn't hear him.

Caerleon twisted, striking upward with his sword. Mordred thought the blow had struck true, but Theoff tumbled off the saddle onto him and they both went down.

And maybe Theoff's foot had caught in the stirrup – the mare was unbalanced and kicked out for freedom even as she was dragged down on her side in the middle of the mess of dead and dying men and their weapons. The mare screamed out with some injury – a sound worse than the cries of the men – and Mordred cringed, covering his ears.

Arthur and the last standing bandit came into view behind the horse as she collapsed, but some movement or blow from behind jarred the prince and his knees buckled. He threw his arms up and caught himself, but the other swung to take advantage-

And jerked as if struck himself by some invisible blade. Stilled, then slumped lifelessly to the ground, as the prince of Caerleon staggered up from the knee-deep jumble. The mare kicked twice more, stiffening more than calming and Mordred tasted bile in the back of his throat.

He wouldn't deny the fascination with the warrior-sorcerer – and the Pendragon prince – but for today, as he clung to the spokes of the wagon wheel and tried to breathe evenly now that it appeared all over, he was glad _they_ were the fighters, and not him.


	8. Let Training Commence

**Chapter 8: Let Training Commence**

Merlin swallowed against the gagging convulsions in his throat as noise and action stilled around him and the stench and silence of death rose up in its place.

He'd been so angry – and now so many were dead.

He stumbled back from the body of a dark roan horse – moving and yet accomplishing nothing, and he figured, broken leg at least.

Glassy blank eyes stared all around him in accusation and condemnation. Blood seeped and spread, creating mud that sucked at the soles of his boots. One man's face was smashed right down in the dirt; one man's gut wound leaked still-glistening entrails.

 _I did this. I did all this. Death – and death – and death-_

The sword in Merlin's hand dripped and his other hand was empty and trembling and his face throbbed with a dizzying effect. The world swirled in his vision as he pivoted, blood-red spreading and tilting…

And it was so much worse than just, his inability to save people – following orders to capture villages as peacefully as he could manage; defending innocent townspeople from attacking mercenaries. He remembered the feeling of fierce exultation to charge, to defy odds, to best those who fought him – to beat them down, to _punish_.

He'd enjoyed it, at least in the moment. It made him feel alive, much like when he used his magic – but now all that was left was death.

Bile lurched in his throat. Instead of bending over his knees where he would see and _see_ and never escape what he'd done, he leaned back to fill his eyes with the blue of the sky, the tossing green of leaves that had never touched dirt, darkening toward autumn and twilight.

"Merlin."

He blinked, and the blue of the sky was the blue of Arthur's eyes, light in the grime and crusted blood and purple-brown bruising on his face. The older prince frowned, and Merlin became aware of the squeeze of a hand on the back of his neck, tangling in and tugging slightly on his hair.

"Are you all right?" Arthur said, shifting his hands to cup Merlin's face in an odd way, with his thumbs by Merlin's nose. "You're bleeding."

For a moment the pain was excruciating – bright and hard and he couldn't breathe and he couldn't see around the tears that sprang into his eyes.

He hummed, focusing on the tickly feeling of blood on his face, down mouth and chin from his nose, and swiped at it with his sleeve when Arthur let him go. "I think I caught someone's elbow."

"I thought the horse might've kicked you," Arthur stated, sounding a bit grim. "It's not broken, I don't think."

Merlin hummed again, tipping his head up so the blood flow would lessen and stop. "And you? You look like hell?"

"I rode into a branch." Arthur peeled Merlin's fingers from his sword-hilt and bent to wipe the blade.

Merlin eyed him without dropping his head. "Clumsy?"

"Unlucky," Arthur retorted, shifting Merlin with a hand on his shoulder to slide his sword back into the sheathe on his back. His own recovered blade was already at his hip; Merlin dimly remembered his friend joining the fight, the last bit of magic that stopped the last bandit from thrusting his sword into the prince's unprotected ribs.

"A _lone_ ," he said deliberately, making the joke for the distance it created from the horror and the elevation of the mood. "And un _aid_ -"

"Shut up."

It seemed to Merlin that though his nose was clogged with clotting blood, none more might trickle down his face. He let his chin drop, spitting out the blood in his mouth gingerly, wary of provoking more bleeding. Arthur stood from his retrieval of Merlin's left-hand knife, stepping carefully over another corpse to run knowledgeable fingers up the prone horse's foreleg – he paused as the animal made a groaning grunt of pain.

"Broken?" Merlin asked, his stomach turning once again. Maybe it was true that a man's life was more valuable – but the creature didn't choose to attack, or fight. It wasn't remotely at fault, but it was suffering anyway.

"Yeah," Arthur said, taking another step to kneel by its head, swiftly and mercifully making the cut that would end its torment with its life.

Merlin was glad it didn't have to be him, turning from the sight and still hoping not to embarrass himself vomiting-

To see that someone had approached them, to within two paces of Arthur's turned back. He was slight and not tall, plainly dressed as all the bandits were, and armed – sword held loosely in his hand. He turned on Merlin a frighteningly empty expression, jaws clenched and eyes icy blue.

Merlin hissed a warning – to Arthur and the young man, both – lifting his hand instinctively to protect himself and his friend with magic. The young man merely blinked at his palm, and met his eyes again almost indifferently.

"No!" Arthur blurted, rising to his feet and spinning round in one move, as the horse expired behind him. "Merlin, no! He's a friend. This is Mordred, the one who called to you."

Merlin let his hand fall slowly, evaluating in an instant. There was a faint yellowish bruise beneath the boy's cheekbone. And his sword was of poor quality, and not professionally kept or held. And a magic-user, who'd helped the Pendragon prince, in the middle of a band of thieves and would-be slave traders.

He decided to trust him until he was persuaded to the contrary.

Turning his hand, he moved past the last body with it still extended for greeting. "Mordred," he said. "I'm Merlin. Thanks very much for letting me know my friend was in trouble."

…..*….. …..*….. …..*….. …..*….. …..*…..

Mordred warily crept out from underneath the wagon, watching the two princes left standing with fascination. Neither of them were what he'd assumed.

The sorcerer-prince of Caerleon was staring around him a bit wildly at the bodies of the bandits he killed-

Ten of the dozen. Because Prince Arthur had accounted for two, as Mordred watched. And he felt himself a bit distant, now, from the violence that had pressed in and overwhelmed him only moments ago.

-As if shocked at his own capacity for such severity, something born and bred in Caerleon, wasn't it? And Arthur, stern and determined in spite of the blow to his head, mercilessly efficient, reached to physically steady the magic-user.

My friend, he'd said. Mordred hadn't disbelieved him, exactly, but to see it. The younger Pendragon, Uther's heir, reaching to touch a sorcerer with care and concern – thoughtless, unhesitating – and the other prince didn't so much as flinch. Didn't stiffen with tension, didn't even _watch_ Arthur handle his weapons, but trusted.

But if the one was Emrys, did that mean the other… the _Pendragon_ … the son of the bloody tyrant and bitter enemy of magic…

Mordred turned aside to yank Caerleon's knife out of Fendulf's ribs. It seemed odd that the man, cruel and snide, should be so silent and motionless. He'd seen the bodies of the dead before – they haunted his nightmares – but it seemed ironic now that these men, who had killed unwary travelers themselves, should meet the same fate.

Wiping the knife on Fendulf's vest, he fingered the hilt and stepped toward the two princes, still surrounded by the aftermath of their fight.

None of the bandits were moving. That didn't surprise Mordred; it was intuitive that both princes would be well trained to dispatch an opponent swiftly and surely, in battle, not merely to wound. No one was moving, and Prince Arthur bent to mercifully put an end to the old mare's suffering-

Mordred felt weightless and empty, crossing ground unsteadily toward them. His clan had been slaughtered and he thought he should care – it looked like it bothered Caerleon more than it bothered him – and he was alone again. Untethered, unconnected… free, but he wasn't sure he liked freedom or wanted it, like this. Prince Arthur had promised to help him find a new place in the world, some place he chose – but now that Arthur himself was free and had his friend at his side, would he ride away from Mordred and not look back?

He didn't think he'd been particularly subtle, crossing the grass to join the two princes, but Caerleon – maybe still unsteady himself; there was blood on his face like he'd been struck when he went down under Theoff and the mare – turned on him like he was deliberately ambushing the pair.

Magic felt imminent, and Mordred simply held still. He deserved whatever punishment the sorcerer-prince would visit upon him, probably.

But Prince Arthur jumped up to defend and introduce him – and Mordred watched as the expression in the dark-haired royal's eyes changed. It occurred to Mordred that he ought to bow.

Prince Merlin stepped closer, hand outstretched, saying his name and introducing himself without his title. "Thanks very much for letting me know my friend was in trouble."

Mordred remembered that he still held the prince's thrown dagger. He lifted it, offering it hilt-first to its owner. "I was the one who knocked him off his horse," he confessed bluntly, gesturing at Arthur with his other hand. "I used magic. So they captured him."

Merlin made no move to punish him; there was no indication that severe judgment swung over Mordred's head. The prince's expression altered only slightly – and then he glanced narrowly at his peer. "Unlucky?"

Arthur heaved a sigh. "We can discuss it later?" he suggested. "Just now I'd be glad to get out of here."

Mordred shifted to be ready to walk away if ordered. To follow if he was allowed. But both princes were contemplating the corpses in a different sort of way.

"What do you think?" Merlin said to Arthur.

"This isn't the time or the place for salvaging," Arthur said, setting his jaw. "We can't take the cart…"

"Saddle the cart horse, then," Merlin said, twisting in place to glance down at the dead roan mare. "Pack as much as we can of the supplies from the wagon. Pile the bodies in, and make it their pyre?"

Mordred stared at him. Both of them were injured, but he didn't think it even occurred to either of them to leave the bodies. And the bandits themselves always had.

"As long as your magic can help with some of the lifting," Arthur said, sounding grumpy, but Merlin huffed like he was amused. Then Pendragon turned to Mordred.

"Do you know if the cart horse was broken to the saddle?" he asked.

"I think so," Mordred said, still unsure how he should behave in the company of royals who didn't act royal. It was a plain dun with patchy mane and tail and plodding paces; when he'd been absorbed into the band he'd heard the men talking about having appropriated it from another ambushed party to replace a former cart-horse…

"Can you ride?" Arthur asked him, perfectly serious.

"Me?" Mordred said, stunned.

"That cart-horse is yours, now," Arthur told him. Merlin moved past them to kneel over the saddle still burdening the dead mare, beginning to unbuckle the girth as if protest of any sort to Arthur's suggestion didn't occur to him.

And together they'd casually given him something more valuable – in fact and in potential – than anything he'd ever been able to call his own in his life.

…..*….. …..*….. …..*….. …..*….. …..*…..

Morgana spoke over her shoulder to Finna as she strode down the corridor in search of her husband, the lord of Trevena. "So what else can you tell me about this Diamair? What does the key to all knowledge mean?"

Her shorter, plumper, older tutor hurried breathlessly to keep up. "Not that much, I'm afraid. It was years ago – we were barely more than children – we used to laugh at the old legends and stories our instructors taught us. But the Diamair was said to have disappeared at Ismere – and that voice, and the blue aura – your sister, my lady, was obviously pursuing the same legend, and believed she found it."

Morgana paused at an intersection, glancing both ways, and chose courtyard over stables and training yard as a more likely location for Trevena's busy master, this time of day.

"So this Diamair is – omniscient?" she said skeptically, not quite sure what to think or how to feel after what she'd learned. Her older sister was set to lead Saxon foreigners in an attack on Caerleon's castle to kill a young princess in an effort to destroy the prince… for revenge? because of how things had gone in the spring, her – _their_ , if she was being honest – failure to conquer Camelot?

Finna clucked her tongue. "It's not a goddess, Morgana. A being of magic with the gift of knowledge – though I seem to remember, according to the story, though it could indeed answer with truth, it couldn't…"

Morgana pushed through the double doors that opened onto a wide half-circle landing, bright with sunlight that spilled down the wide, shallow steps descending to the cobblestones of the courtyard. Acollyn stood cross-armed, frowning over a serious-looking conversation with his father, still serving as Trevena's steward, and a plainly-dressed man Morgana didn't recognize.

"Couldn't what?" she said impatiently to Finna, holding herself in place with an effort, knowing better than to rush upon the conversation and demand Acollyn's immediate attention. Because he would give it unhesitatingly, but the other two would not appreciate the interruption, and as Trevena's mistress, it mattered what the people thought of her, and Acollyn. A few moments could make little difference to her information, anyway.

"It couldn't… answer questions that weren't asked." Finna had a thoughtful wrinkle between her eyes when Morgana glanced at her, gaze focused downward. She nodded to herself, as if confirming her memory, and repeated, "Couldn't answer questions that weren't asked. It was always interesting to me, how the priestesses searched for knowledge, foreknowledge, advantage, where the druids taught us caution. Some things were better left unknown, or known only to a select few, especially foreknowledge. And any action taken based upon such delicate information must be very well-considered, for the ripples of effect that might be created, and pass beyond control and cause irreparable changes. Damages, it may be."

Morgana hummed, only listening with half an ear as she watched Acollyn shift his weight, shake his head, and answer back to whatever the stranger had reported or suggested. She had heard as much from Finna before, in studying or discussing her own involuntary magic of Seeing through her dreams. Control, caution, consideration. A second opinion for meaning, and a third for conclusion. Far better to suppress the visions than to make faulty assumptions – and then mistakes in taking the wrong action, or the right action that led to an undesirable outcome.

"I wonder if any correlation can be made," Finna mused, "between the priestesses rather careless attitude and their downfall, and the druid clans' caution and their survival. Perhaps it was more the fact that the Isle was a single fixed place, and the druids were and are comprised of many roving communities…"

"So this Diamair could not tell someone what he or she did not ask?" Morgana said. She raised her hand as Acollyn shifted again, catching his eye. Request for attention, much better than interruption. She was a Lady after all, a wife and the mistress of the estate.

"Which is why care should probably be taken when asking any question at all," Finna said. "If you forget to request clarification or explanation, misunderstanding can take place…"

"Like with my visions?" Morgana gathered her skirt and stepped swiftly-smooth down the stairs to meet Acollyn, as he took his leave of the other two men, their business evidently concluded.

"Exactly. An incomplete picture cannot yield realistic expectations…"

Morgana tossed a look over her shoulder to acknowledge and thank her tutor, who didn't follow her down to the cobblestones.

"My lady," Acollyn said, love and humor in his voice as he caught up her hand and kissed it, in place of a more personal salutation in such a public place. "I was just learning of some minor wind damage among the trees of the orchard. To what do I owe this precipitous-"

"We scryed my sister again," Morgana declared, keeping her voice low so they wouldn't be overheard in the always-busy courtyard. "She's allied with the Saxons and plans to lead them against Beckon Cove."

Acollyn straightened, his gaze lifting vaguely above the top of her head. "Prince Merlin? Because of what happened in Essetir?"

Morgana twitched impatience and irritation with her sister. "I suppose. But we have to go to Caerleon and warn them."

He shook his head in immediate denial. "You can't-"

"I have to!" she snapped back, knowing that he would understand, her mood was nothing to do with him. "I can talk to her, convince her to stop – she wouldn't listen to anyone else, but I think I can-"

"You can't," Acollyn repeated with quiet but emphatic sympathy. He took her by the shoulders. "We can't. There's a reason Arthur and Merlin use an envoy to pass between their two kingdoms – the king of Caerleon has not relented his enmity with Camelot. If you or I cross the border uninvited, Caerleon may choose to take it as an act of war-"

"But-" Morgana protested.

"And without Prince Arthur's permission to risk it anyway, the most I can do is send a trusted messenger, posthaste." He gave her a grimace that said, _Yes I_ _understand, but_. "Come. I'll send for Ambeht, and you can begin composing the message immediately."

Turning to one of the page-boys, he issued the order for the summons of the messenger even as he reached to slide his arm around her shoulders, comforting and calming and possessive and it _worked_. She let him guide her up the stairs without feeling much of a protest. Maybe she didn't need rescuing like any other helpless lady, but she was glad when he did it anyway.

More minutes ticked past without forward momentum, though, other than their physical progress through the corridors to their chambers. Morgana hurried their pace and of course he noticed, but didn't object or even drop his arm away from her. Not until they reached their destination; once through the door, she ducked out from under his touch and headed for her writing desk.

Fresh sheet of parchment, uncork the ink bottle, dip the quill. _Merlin and Freya, forgive the hurried tone of this letter, but I write to you with great urgency. I have Seen Morgause give orders to a troop of Saxons near Ismere with the purpose of taking Beckon Cove to threaten your lives specifically._

She paused, wondering if she ought to add that the intention was to kill Freya as revenge upon Merlin, as the only way to defeat him – and then realized, she had no idea of the number of men Morgause could command. Did it matter? her sister was an accomplished sorceress, and might take on a fortress by herself.

Except, she had used Cenred's paid mercenaries to attack Camelot. And she'd already admitted that she needed additional advantage before daring to challenge Merlin directly… thus the whole reason for seeking Freya's life.

It didn't make sense. Therefore surely there must be some plot or plan her sister had in mind to reach Freya before Merlin was aware… Morgana blinked and focused on her husband, leaning over the table with his arms braced to either side of a map.

"What are you doing?" she asked. Ambeht was Trevena's preferred messenger; even if he hadn't traveled within Caerleon's borders personally, he was a skilled reader of maps and terrain.

"Your sister was in Ismere?" he said, not looking up. "And they were leaving immediately?"

Morgana did not think the Saxons would be able to argue effectively for a delay til the morrow. "I'm sure of it."

He swayed slightly, picking up one hand to trace a forefinger over the map. "Ambeht cannot reach Beckon Cove in time for Caerleon to gather his warriors and intercept the Saxons before they cross his border. It is more likely that the threat your sister presents will have Caerleon remaining within his stronghold to defend from there."

Morgana made a face. That meant the women and children and noncombatants would be in danger from the fighting – just as they had been when Cenred attacked Camelot. How had she ever believed that such a course was just, or necessary?

Acollyn lifted his head, meeting her eyes. "We can send Ambeht immediately, then I will gather a majority of our fighters and march to the border. If Ambeht can tell Caerleon, we are ready and willing to fight with him against the Saxons, it may be that he will invite us to join him, and you may find occasion to speak to your sister. I assume that Merlin is nearly her equal? But I shudder to think what damage two battling magic-users might wreak. Then pray heaven she listens to reason, rather than revenge."

Amen to that, Morgana thought.

Ambeht appeared in the doorway they'd left open, solid and unassuming and only as tall as she was, his brown curls touched with blonde and no gray yet. "They said you needed me to ride, my lord, my lady?"

Morgana dipped her pen into the inkwell again and signed her name to the message. She could only hope that Merlin would have time to magically fortify his home against the Saxon army – and Morgause.

…..*….. …..*….. …..*….. …..*… …..*…..

Mordred had never been required – allowed – to touch either of the horses belonging to the band, out of all the menial chores they had laid on him. He admitted his intimidation to himself, facing the enormous dark equine – how had he never noticed those large liquid eyes were so _intelligent_ – brush in his hand. Carefully he edged around the cart-horse that had carried him patiently for two or three hours, away from the smoke of the burning wagon with its load of charring corpses.

Prince Merlin was across the clearing, arranging the additional burden they'd each carried – the weapons and the supplies from the wagon – for the night's safety. Somehow he was also managing to construct and confine and light a cooking-fire in preparation for the evening meal, also. And was his gelding already cared for?

It was slightly awkward. If neither of the princes were going to bark orders at him, he wasn't quite sure what they expected. All he could do was keep his eyes open and try to anticipate. It was one thing having Ragnor cuff him upside the head for some shortcoming; he did not want to be cuffed by either of these princes. He did not want to find out that they were the sort of men to cuff someone, after all.

"You want to pay particular attention to the places where the leather rubs," Arthur observed. He had his back to Mordred, using his own brush on his mount, gray-white with darker patches, easily the most beautiful horse Mordred had ever seen. "Places where mud has splashed," he added. "Run your hand down the legs inside and out to check for warm patches. But untangling mane and tail isn't strictly necessary."

Pendragon was speaking to him, he realized. Giving him instructions – then he'd noticed that Mordred was watching and copying, and guessed that he didn't have any experience with this.

"When we're done here, we'll have a look at your saddle and tack," Arthur continued, nodding toward the fire where their packs had been dropped. It was strange to Mordred to have ownership of the Ragnor's saddle now, too. "You don't want worn-out leather irritating your horse's hide, or breaking at the wrong moment."

"Yes, sire," Mordred mumbled, trying to mimic the princes' smooth, sure strokes.

That turned Arthur's head, and the look he gave Mordred was reproachful. "That's really not necessary. It's just the three of us, and let me warn you – warriors of Caerleon, up to and including the crown prince, do not take kindly to protocol and ceremony."

"Did I hear my name?" Prince Merlin called cheerfully, knelt on one knee to fill the pot that would be suspended over the fire to heat their dinner in.

"I'm just warning Mordred what to expect from a barbarian," Arthur returned.

Merlin glanced at Mordred. There was a scab across the bridge of his nose, which seemed to have swelled a bit, but his eyes were dark and held the silent flame of the flickering campfire.

Mordred shied away from that look instinctively. It made him ashamed of his part in Pendragon's ambush when the prince of Caerleon looked at him. It made him embarrassed to be caught staring; if this young sorcerer was Emrys, would he see supporting evidence in magic used freely and powerfully and constantly? And yet Mordred didn't think Merlin's eyes had so much as sparked gold once, though the afternoon's ride and this evening's chores.

He did as Arthur had advised and demonstrated, caring for the cart-horse, and followed the golden-haired prince to the fire hoping he had not gotten anything wrong.

Merlin leaned forward, peering into the pot, his face ruddy with the fire's heat. "Give it a few more minutes," he informed them.

Arthur lowered himself to a reclining position against his saddle with a sigh; Mordred detected both pain and exhaustion in the sound. He crouched over his feet, hugging his knees, knowing that the soreness he felt from the hours in the saddle were nothing compared to the aches and pains of the other two.

In a new situation again. Keep quiet and watch, til he knew what to expect, what was expected of him. He'd learned that over and over, and from a very young age.

"So," Merlin said, stirring the pot with a peeled stick, his eyes on his task. "Have you got to go home to Camelot and start all over again?" Mordred looked at Arthur, whose expression was set uncomprehending and wary. Merlin added softly – _teasingly_? – "Alone and unaided."

"Will you never let that go?" Arthur demanded, irked.

Mordred tensed, far too used to the way bickering turned to insults and fistfights and grudges. But Merlin only grinned into the brilliance of the flame, stirring so that the pot swung gently but didn't spill.

"No," Arthur declared. "I'm going to complete my quest and when I get home I'll tell them you were involved and everyone will shrug and say, well that's as good as alone and unaided. Bloody useless lot, sorcerers. Warriors of Caerleon, not much better."

Mordred stopped breathing.

Merlin laughed, and it wasn't an ugly sound of sarcasm, but rather a quiet and companionable delight. "You're feeling better, then?"

Was that what friends meant? That you could laugh at each other, and at yourself, and instead of dividing you, it made you closer?

"I'm hungry," Arthur grumbled, shifting to get more comfortable.

Merlin lifted the branch that had been weighted and propped with rocks to hold the pot in place over the heat. Depositing it beside him where the tin dishes waited on the ground next to his knee, he began pouring the lumps of meat and potato and vegetable with broth into the dishes. Equally, Mordred suspected, feeling his eyebrows lift. He scooted forward to claim the one that looked like it held the least – and had to accept a different bowl, lifted to his reaching hand by the sorcerer-prince. Casually.

"I take it you didn't find your father, then?" Arthur asked Merlin, as they both settled back to blow on cooling spoonfuls lifted to their mouths.

Merlin hummed a negative, taking a bite. "But I'm on the right track. He's close, I can feel it. They're close."

Mordred was curious, but didn't dare pose a question.

"I'm sorry to delay you, then," Arthur said softly, and his tone was completely different than _bloody useless lot, sorcerers_.

"No," Merlin said, breathing around the heat of a bite he'd taken too quickly. "My quest will keep a few days. I've decided to visit Ismere. Y'know, completely independent of your trip, even if we're on the same road at the same time. And if I find the key to all knowledge before you do-"

Mordred almost dropped his dish in shock. Ismere. The key to all knowledge.

"You don't have to," Arthur argued. "I can take care of myself, you know. When I'm not being ambushed by-"

"The Diamair," Mordred blurted unintentionally, and couldn't stop more words spilling out. "Why… why would you want-"

"What's a Diamair?" Arthur asked, confused. And even the sorcerer-prince had a puzzled look.

"Ismere," Mordred said, wishing he'd kept his mouth shut. Why was that so much easier in the larger group of coarser men? "The key to all knowledge, you said."

"Is that the proper term for it?" Merlin's tone was innocent curiosity, and he focused on his next bite, but Mordred suddenly felt like Merlin had been watching him for some time, the way he'd been watching the sorcerer-prince.

"More of a title, I think?" Mordred said, feeling flushed and awkward and directing his gaze into his dish again with studied focus.

"A title?" Arthur repeated, sitting forward and lowering his bowl to his lap. "You mean it's a-"

"Person?" Merlin finished the question.

And both princes were staring at him and they might both be so much more important than just princes and he could _see_ it, their bond, their _likeness_. He swallowed hard and closed his eyes and did his best to recall.

"There's places associated, or assigned, to beings of magic," he said. "The Diamair was in Ismere, the Disir in Breneved, the Dochraid… I don't remember. They weren't places anyone was meant to visit."

Silence. Crackle of the campfire dying low into luminous coals and the dark intruding on the edges of twilight. Mordred opened his eyes to see Arthur scowling at his lap, Merlin's eyes on him.

"If it's a person, if it's a being of magic, I can't take them back to Camelot," Arthur said, sounding disgruntled.

"Given the vision that prompted your quest, and the changes to the law you wish to make, maybe he or she will agree to go with you," Merlin countered more optimistically. "I could come with you, swear to protect this Diamair and guarantee his-"

"Her?" Mordred said before he thought. But wasn't it always a her?

Merlin spared him a glance, no more offended by the interruption than he'd been before. "Guarantee her safety, to Camelot and back. If she wished to return to Ismere, after."

"What about your father?" Arthur said in a low voice, giving the other prince a look from under his brows.

 _What about his father? Wasn't he the king of Caerleon?_

 __"It's been more than twenty years. A month more, give or take, won't matter."

"Alone," Arthur said, sarcastic and dissatisfied. "And unaided."

Mordred wondered if his presence counted, or whether they'd expect him to go his own way in the morning. Whether they'd make him choose some village and leave him there and ride off together. He'd halfheartedly decided upon Helva, when the druids had banished him, but now it seemed he could have no greater ambition than to remain near this pair and witness.

Maybe find some lesser place in their destiny, that would give his life meaning, too?

"So tomorrow, and Ismere," Merlin said, pushing upright and stepping around the fire to retrieve Arthur's dish – and Mordred's. He let go of the metal rim reflecting that he should have thought to claim and clean them, but he could find no hint in the prince's behavior that Merlin shared the thought.

"I was thinking to spend a day or so scouting the area," Arthur said. "Find another way in that the Saxons wouldn't know about, hide my presence as much as possible."

"The midden heap," Merlin suggested, scouring the dishes with a handful of leaves. "Up to the scullery and the kitchens. Elbows deep in carrot tops and wilted cabbage leaves, and – that's if we're lucky."

Arthur grunted. "Now I wonder, with these weapons and the surplus foodstuffs, maybe we pass ourselves off as traders. Walk right in through the gates, if they let us."

"And avoid the dishwater poured down our necks?" Merlin's grin lit his whole face, and made Mordred want to smile, too. "What do you think, Mordred, I'll follow that plan."

"Yeah," said Mordred, because they were both looking at him again, like they were waiting for him to answer, like they cared what he thought and said. "Um. But, what if they decide to kill us and take the weapons and supplies without need for bargaining or payment?"

Pendragon actually grinned. And in the firelight, with half his face bruised and bloodied, it made Mordred glad he had nothing to fear from the prince anymore.

Caerleon, on the other hand, ducked his head with boyish mischief dancing in his eyes. "I'm pretty sure I could make them reconsider."

Mordred didn't even try to stop himself smiling back.

…..*….. …..*….. …..*….. …..*….. …..*…..

Gwaine had just settled into his seat on the side of the table facing the four children, and reached for the serving spoon in a steaming dish of stewed carrots – and other vegetables? he should have paid more attention when Caet chattered about the variety in the kitchen garden – when a young man rushed into the hall, breathless with exhaustion and hurry.

He was on his feet before Myles had his chair pushed back from the table.

"Sorry, sir," the young man gasped out, before he'd received any sort of permission to speak or interrupt. "Comin' from the northeast quarter of the estate? Was sent to tell you there was a whole host of fighters crossing the land further east? Dressed up like Saxons? Didn't come onto Orkan-broch land at all, but we thought you should know, m'lord?"

"Heading south?" Gwaine clarified.

"Yessir." The young man ducked his head in a quick nod, rubbing his hands together nervously.

Siura rose from the table in an abrupt scrape of her chair, turning to the firepit where the excess of their dinner remained in the cook-pots; she'd probably dish the lad up more than he could manage to put away, as reward for bringing the message.

Gwaine looked down at Myles, who'd decided to remain seated, slouched to one side and pinching his lips thoughtfully. He could almost see his brother-in-law considering – if it wasn't on their land… should they send the message on south to the king… probably couldn't reach him before the troop did anyway…

"I volunteer," he spoke aloud, quietly. "I'll ride east and intercept them, keep an eye on their route and progress, assess numbers and potential threat. Maybe get ahead of them, if they're headed for Beckon Cove, I'll be moving faster and lighter."

Myles began nodding slowly; there was nothing illogical in Gwaine's suggestion.

Yesterday afternoon they'd held the ceremony laying his mother to rest among the tomb-mounds of Orkan-broch. She'd been lucid enough to bid the grandchildren good-night, but in the morning when Siura woke, a crick in her neck and her mother's hand lax in hers, Lady Doreynda was gone. Peacefully in her sleep, surrounded by family, and Gwaine could not believe that anyone had a right to ask for more. And so, there was nothing really holding him here, anymore.

"I should take Gareth," he added, keeping his tone neutral. "If he's to be my squire, might as well start now."

Myles turned his head, to meet Siura's gaze behind Gwaine's back, he knew; the sounds of his sister preparing the messenger's plate had stilled. Caet made a sorrowful little noise, but Gareth's eyes were wide with apprehension – and excitement.

Gwaine spoke to his nephew. "Scouts aren't meant to engage. We'd stay well out of sight, get our information, get on ahead of them wherever they mean to go. If they're just crossing for Southron territory, we let them go. If not…"

"It'll be hard riding," Myles said, and it was almost a question.

"Might be," Gwaine allowed. "But he's small enough I can carry him on my back when I'm out of the saddle if I need to."

Siura moved back to her place at the foot of the table, holding the extra steaming plate and studying him. He held her eyes, and after a moment, she gave a grudging nod, looking to Myles. "If we're going to do this, we're going to do this. If Gareth wants this, he's got to know what it means."

"And if he's sick of the idea by the time the venture is done, I'll bring him home," Gwaine promised.

Gareth scowled at him. Siura glanced down at him and saw it, and harrumphed.

"Very well," Myles said, deceptively mild. "So be it."

Siura stalked to give the messenger his meal, and Gwaine sat back down.

"We'll leave at first light," he told Gareth. "Not dawn, mind you, but the moment you can see your hand at arms' length."

Gareth tried to grin. Caet nudged him and whispered, "I'll help you pack."


	9. The Depths of Ismere

**Chapter 9: The Depths of Ismere**

Merlin brought up the rear of their trio in the morning, reins lax in his fingers, letting his gelding follow the others. The leisurely pace was warranted, how close they were to Ismere, how burdened the mounts were with the excess taken from the bandits.

He blinked and straightened through a tremble in his spine, seeing the nightmare images of the dead flash over his vision. He wasn't sure he didn't regret his actions, and that bothered him.

The easy pace was good for Arthur, too. He'd winced through a morning washing of hands and face and shrugged off Merlin's offer of help – and Mordred's watchful concern – in cleaning and rebandaging his shoulder. But to Merlin, the skin surrounding the angry red tears down his upper arm looked puffy and a shade too dark.

Maybe after Ismere and the Diamair, he'd let Merlin take a closer look. Between him and Mordred, the druid boy, they ought to be able to…

Hm. Mordred the druid boy. Who'd been more an armed member of the bandit troop than a helpless slave.

Merlin pressed his heels to his gelding's flanks and moved up next to Mordred on the cart-horse. The boy gave him a glance half-wary, half-welcome, as if he wasn't sure what to make of Merlin. Which wasn't an unusual reaction, after all.

"How does it feel this morning, being back in the saddle?" he asked, hoping he hit a tone more sympathetic than condescending.

"Fine sire thank you," Mordred said, fast but quiet.

And darting more sideways glances, clearly more unsettled to be alone with Merlin than with Arthur. Maybe because he expected Merlin to be angry about his part in Arthur's ambush; though Merlin decided, if Arthur was going to forgive a druid boy his attack, how should he hold something against Mordred that he was probably coerced into doing? And besides, it was his magic which aided Merlin's rescue…

Maybe his nervousness stemmed from the way Merlin had used his magic – and his other skills – yesterday against the bandits.

"I think I owe you an apology," Merlin said cheerfully, willing to be patient with the boy's uneasiness.

Another swift, startled glance.

"I am very glad that you chose to help me help Arthur. Maybe you didn't think or expect that your fellows would be killed? Or at least not all of them?" Merlin watched Mordred fiddle with his reins, and ventured, "You had friends among them? Someone who looked out for you, specifically?"

Mordred squinted ahead of them at Arthur in the lead – broad shoulders, head constantly slowly swiveling, though they didn't really expect to run into any Saxons this far south of Ismere. Then he shook his head – and without a verbal response, Merlin guessed that the negative answered his latter two questions.

"Why were you with them, then?" he asked, lowering his voice for Mordred's comfort and the assurance that they would not be overheard. Maybe Mordred had gotten comfortable with a restrained Pendragon and maybe he hadn't had a chance to decide how he felt about the crown prince of Camelot, free to return to the rule that banned magic on pain of death. "Did they take you from your clan? We've got – _this_ , to do now, but when Arthur's quest is complete, we could return you to your clan. Even if they've moved, we can find out where…"

Mordred was shaking his head again, bending the stiff leather of his reins back on themselves. "Before… Ragnor," he said, not looking at Merlin and keeping his voice low. Reticent and solemn seemed his nature. "My clan… banished me."

Even knowing he would be subject to another swift scrutiny, Merlin could not stop his eyebrows flying upwards. Or maybe that was why the boy was nervous to be in company with a fellow magic-user. Guilt? Shame?

At his age?

"You mind if I ask why?" Merlin said.

Mordred cringed slightly, but otherwise gave no sign he'd heard the question.

They rode a few more paces in silence. Merlin studied the land around them, rolling hills and more trees gathered together than the plains they'd crossed to get here.

"My wife," he said conversationally. "The princess of Caerleon. I met her when she was sixteen, I was seventeen." Mordred was listening; Merlin guessed he might be about fourteen himself. Maybe a small fifteen. "She was trapped in a bounty-hunter's cage, bound for Uther and execution… She'd been cursed, you see. She was a… danger to those around her, under the curse, and the druids had turned her out."

Mordred's spine straightened, and his head cocked, through Merlin's abbreviated story. "But she's… You married her? You broke the curse?"  
"Took me a couple of weeks," Merlin admitted wryly.

The druid boy made a thoughtful noise, shifted in the saddle, and forgot to glance at Merlin for several long moments, so absorbing were his thoughts. Merlin waited him out.

"There was a spell," Mordred said finally, in a low voice. "Forbidden. I… attempted it anyway."

Merlin bit the inside of his grimace so it wouldn't show, anticipating that Mordred would check his reaction – and he did. _Which one_. Because there was a great deal of magic forbidden to those who were young and still-learning. It wasn't necessarily anything Forbidden to all because it was Dark; it could be something delicate-complicated-powerful, and therefore restricted til ability and control and judgment was proven.

But something to be put out of the clan for, at his age…

Sounding understandably on edge, Mordred volunteered, "It was the _smeldian_ _wyrd_."

Oh, now _that_ …

Merlin could not help his eyebrows hiking upward again, sending a glance of his own at the boy to ascertain veracity – and he was completely satisfied. Also, completely surprised. It was a spell forbidden to the young without supervision and to the community at large as a matter of course, as it dealt with the delicate balance of foresight, cause and effect. The sort of knowledge the Diamair might be said to possess.

"That spell requires two," Merlin said without inflection. And Mordred was still banished alone?

The boy pressed his lips together and shook his head stubbornly.

Well, let him keep that secret. Merlin asked, "Were you acting as caster or subject?"

"Caster."

Merlin nodded; that would probably carry a stricter punishment. But banishment at his age? Perhaps there were extenuating circumstances, ones which maybe Mordred himself might be unaware of.

He added, "But we didn't even finish the ritual before we – before I was caught."

Merlin let some moments pass in silence – but for the noise of their passage – before venturing another question. "And if you hadn't been interrupted?"

Pause. Not for thought but for decision to answer honestly, to trust Merlin with the information.

"We would have done it again, with me as the subject." Mordred watched Merlin out of the corner of his eye as their horses ambled comfortably several paces behind Arthur's.

"Why was it so important for you to learn your destiny that you risked – and suffered – this punishment?" Merlin held his tone to mild curiosity, not censure. He remembered moments in his own boyhood when he'd been desperate for someone to just tell him what he was supposed to do. Fewer and further between than the moments when he wanted to scream to be left alone, for everyone to stop telling him what he was supposed to do-

"It's very well for you," Mordred spoke swift and low and surprisingly bitter. "Crown prince of Caerleon, and all. Of course your destiny is wonderful, and perfectly clear."

Merlin held back a snort of sarcasm with an effort. And in a moment when Mordred looked at little ashamed of his outburst, Merlin responded, "I was adopted. And even those born to the throne-" he tossed a gesture at Arthur's back- "always have the option of abdication. So it is a question, and it is a choice, to keep on the path laid in front of you. Whether that's at birth, or whether it comes clear later."

Take Gwaine for example. There had been several and significant changes made to the course of his life, some his choice, and some not.

"Oh," Mordred said suddenly. "Adopted. Is that why you and Prince Arthur said you were looking for your father."

As when he'd spoken of Freya, Merlin chose the simple version of his father's story. "He was a magic-user, hunted by King Uther. He went into hiding before I was born."

A dragonlord. Yet another aspect of heritage, and this one beyond _his_ choice, it seemed. He thought he was probably glad he hadn't known about that responsibility also, when he was Mordred's age and so conflicted about whether he wanted to control his own future or not, on top of the duties of a crown prince and the training of a magic-user.

"I think it is better not to know your destiny," he commented. "I think if clarity is necessary, it'll happen on its own, and pursuit is discretionary. If choice is essentially an illusion, better the illusion that gives you the confidence of control and responsibility and choice, than… unhappy resignation."

Mordred's fingers played absently with his reins. His back was straight, his head tipped thoughtfully, his eyes fixed on a point in the air ahead of them.

"My tutor used to say, things that are meant to happen will happen whether you know about them in advance, or not. Whether you strive to complete them, or avoid them – and then if a man must strive, isn't it better to strive for something you've chosen as the greatest good for your people – for those you love, for the whole kingdom."

Even if it was impossible, and you failed – it wasn't a life wasted.

More moments passed. Merlin noticed that the black lines and corners of Ismere were edging into view above the foot of the last hill – less than an hour and they'd be at the gates. Probably Saxon lookouts had already marked their approach.

"So you mean," Mordred said hesitantly. "If it's something terrible, it's better not to know… And if it's something grand, it's better not to… worry about how and when? And if it's… nothing at all?"  
"Better to live your life as if the grand is possible, but be content with the ordinary and the small," Merlin finished for him. "I think it has to do with hope, also. If you know the future, then there's little room for hope, and it's… one of things that keeps people going, that makes our interactions with each other worthwhile."

Mordred nodded slowly, relaxing. Watching Arthur again for a time, more than their surroundings – though as no Saxons had shown themselves, there was nothing but the square tower looming to indicate that the rather uncertain end of their journey was at hand.

"When I was a child," the druid boy began haltingly. "My guardian took me to the market in Camelot for supplies."

Ouch. Merlin winced internally. Guardian meant he'd had no family, from an early age. And for a druid in Camelot – years ago, it must have been – it was not hard to guess the reason for bereavement.

"We were caught. He was killed. I didn't – I couldn't fight. They put me in a cell…"

He heard what the boy couldn't put into words, echoing through the pause. _I was scared. I was going to die. I was scared I was going to die._

"In the middle of the night, Prince Arthur came and unlocked the cell. He took me through a secret passage to the forest, back to my guardian's clan."

Merlin made a noise of realization. And of course the boy had recognized his savior – and maybe Arthur had recognized the boy he'd saved, too. And the odd alliance and trust was explained.

"But after that. The elders were… distant. I felt as if… they believed I didn't deserve to be saved. As if the… mercy of a Pendragon had… marked me, somehow. They weren't renegades, they didn't plot against Camelot, they weren't violent, but there was no respect for either prince or king, and I… it was as if they thought that I… had betrayed them. That I was tainted… corrupted."

That, Merlin could understand. "There were those among the warriors of Caerleon who weren't happy that I've treated with him. They'd prefer vengeance over peace with an enemy that's dealt them irreparable hurt."

Mordred looked dissatisfied. Because talking of druid and talking of barbarian warriors were two different things – the druids ought not prefer vengeance, or hold grudges. Even though they were only men, after all, and sometimes men didn't act according to their claimed principles.

But that did explain a little better why Mordred would be desperate to know his fate, his path. To be alone in a familial community, to be treated as an outsider for something he had no control over, contact with Uther Pendragon's son… He knew how the same aching disappointment and regret and longing had distressed Freya also. That sort of thing could turn a person – especially a young person – into someone who found it hard to trust others, to believe in the good in themselves, to believe they were capable of anything great.

"May I ask you a question?" Mordred ventured hesitantly, all shy glances and nervous fingers again. "About Prince Arthur's sword?"

 _Why would you help Arthur Pendragon? Because of the sword you gave him._ The reason that Mordred had contacted him for Arthur's sake.

"He told you about that?" Merlin was both amused and intrigued. Even given their former contact, Arthur could see a druid among bandits as his most likely ally, and persuade the boy that he was trustworthy.

"I could feel it," Mordred explained, his eyes on Arthur's figure – and suddenly Merlin was sure it would be the specific point of the hilt of that sword. "The magic – your magic – I could feel it."

Merlin grimaced to himself. "I was afraid of that. I hope it'll fade quickly – he doesn't notice, but I'd just as soon other magic-folk wouldn't notice, either."

Mordred's head snapped around and he stared at Merlin with widened blue-green eyes. It was rather stupid-powerful magic, the sort that's dangerous if you're careless or don't know what you're doing, but it wasn't as though the decision had been irresponsible.

"Are you-" Mordred began.

He was interrupted by Arthur, who'd reined in and twisted in his saddle to face them.

…..*….. …..*….. …..*….. …..*….. …..*…..

Arthur was not feeling well this morning. He was not feeling himself. That worried him, but a little less than it would have, had he been on his own.

Had he been on his own, he might have found a nice cave for the assurance of security, and spent a few more hours tucked up in his bedroll. Not as much for the energy sleep might be expected to restore as for the comfort of dark blankness on aching eyeballs that protested the need for constant surveillance. And the immobility of a shoulder that throbbed annoyingly thick and hot, just enough to distract.

But there was Mordred, who was on his own now but for him and Merlin. And Merlin, who was going to be stubborn about delaying his own quest to appoint himself supervisor of Arthur's.

He had thought of retreat. Of letting Merlin continue on his own to the mountains and his father and the dragon, bringing Mordred back to… wherever he might want to go, if it wasn't Camelot. Caerleon would have him – or he might like to go with Merlin, judging from the way he watched the other magic-user, with fascinated awe.

And Arthur could… return to Camelot? See Gaius, and take a long hot bath and sleep a full day in his bed?

And tacitly admit he might not have quite what it took to be king, if his knight's quest recorded a false start. His pride resisted that quite a bit more than it resisted forcing himself in his bleary, headachy state to push on in company with Merlin and Mordred.

As they rode, he wasn't searching the distances, only their immediate surroundings for threat. So he found himself mildly surprised to discover that the base of the black tower of Ismere was in sight; it rose right up from the rock like it had been grown from the earth's roots rather than built by the hands of men. They had a level plain to cross yet, maybe half a league's distance.

He drew rein and turned in the saddle, aware that Merlin and Mordred had ridden side by side for an hour or more, conversing in low, serious tones, though he trusted that the other prince would not have neglected to keep a lookout as well.

"I beg your pardon for the interruption," he said, using his manners to convey sarcasm. "But it seems we've arrived."

Merlin made a sound of awe and dismay, urging his gelding up beside Arthur's mount. "I suppose it's a good thing Ismere is remote," he commented, scanning the still-distant structure. "You'll never oust the Saxons from there."

Arthur grunted, thinking, _Not without magic, anyway_. A thought for another day.

Then his irreverent friend broke the mood into light humor by adding, "Can you imagine how many _stairs_ that place must have?"

Behind them, Mordred snickered. And Arthur found, as they rode closer, heading for the cart-path cut into the foundation and leading to a narrow gate with a pointed-arch, even though men came into view, lookouts and bowmen posed on the walls and lower roofs, it was impossible to be intimidated when one thought of the inhabitants, out of breath and sour-tempered from the labor of climbing and descending stairs.

They were watched, but they weren't hailed, climbing the cart-path on the northwestern face of the tower's foundation, two switch-back turns and duck your head through the narrow aperture, thick oaken doors standing open.

Two men watched them from the wall above, their helmets incorporating leather facial-guards of woven straps so identity and expression were hidden, but no arrows or bolts were nocked or aimed, no demands directed, no orders shouted.

Once inside the paved courtyard there were maybe a dozen and a half, all told, wearing knee-length tunics and wrapped leggings, leather breastplates and more of the same helmets – but no one in formation or carrying an open weapon. Perhaps they didn't consider three men approaching openly any kind of threat, even though they were obviously natives, not fellow Saxons.

Maybe they considered three approaching natives to be fools and easy targets, taken at leisure and boredom.

"I expected more of them," Merlin murmured aside to Arthur, almost a question.

Arthur grunted, shifting in his saddle to try to identify the leader. Perhaps more of them were dispersed inside the tower itself – though, why? it seemed Ismere was more of a temporary stopping-place than an established outpost with permanent residents to be supplied.

One of the helmeted men stepped forward, hands on his hips and leaning backward so his belly was his most prominent feature. "Strangers," he pronounced, by way of greeting, and his accent was thick, but understandable. "What brings you to Ismere?"

Arthur had to stamp down on his instinctively arrogant crown-prince retort: _I could_ _say the same to you_ … Instead he said gruffly, "Trade."

The others were gathering slowly, curious in an idle, cursory way. The one who'd spoken to Arthur – wider of girth than most of his fellows, though otherwise unremarkable – concluded genially enough, "Dismount and welcome. What d'ya bring? And what d'ya want?"

Arthur kept his two companions in the corner of his eye, dismounting. There was no reason to think they would be rushed in murderous aggression, but there was no reason to think the Saxons would respect them enough not to, if the idea entered their heads that it would profit them somehow. The balance of power appeared at least, to be all in their favor.

"We've got some weaponry," Arthur said cautiously. "Some extra stores – bag of flour, bag of apples, root vegetables. Oats and rock-salt."

The man nodded, eyes glittering behind the leather straps that covered and protected his face. "And what yer lookin' for?"

Arthur hesitated. "To spend a peaceful night or two sharing shelter before we move on."

And what if they couldn't find the Diamair in that time? Well, at least they could find that alternative entrance, maybe, the scullery chute Merlin joked about. But with Merlin looking-

He realized belatedly that the Saxons were shifting and trading glances, and turned his head to catch Merlin's eye, instincts flaring to readiness.

And Merlin sauntered forward. "Connections."

"Huh?" the Saxon grunted, unknowingly echoing Arthur's own internal lack of comprehension.

"We're new to the business. We've got supplies, but no market. No one to sell to. We thought if we had an understanding with your people here, in the future we could come back…"

"Hum," the Saxon said, sending a look around his men that had them relaxing.

Merlin turned to untie the bundle of weapons from his saddle, making a big show of unrolling the blanket-wrapped swords, axes, knives. Four crossbows hung off Mordred's saddle, and there were a couple dozen bolts knotted in Arthur's lot. He pushed their mounts slightly, so Mordred at the lead-reins of the cart-horse was in the middle of them, and handed his reins and Merlin's to the boy for safe-keeping, nodding to give some reassurance to Mordred's wide-eyed apprehension.

"Where'd this lot come from, then?" the Saxon asked, toeing the blanket with his boot.

Merlin glanced up and grinned, hands busy spacing hilts and hafts. "Here and there."

Two of the others were crowding Arthur, inspecting his saddle and the hilt of his own obviously more princely sword – he didn't try to hide it, knowing the action would only serve to draw attention.

"Keepin' quality merchandise fer yourselves?" the Saxon commented, bending as if to touch the pommel of Merlin's sword, angling above his shoulder.

Merlin didn't even look up, shifting away as if he needed to, stretching to straighten a corner of the blanket displaying the weapons for sale. He stood in a fluid motion, his face relaxed satisfaction, his hands on his hips. "Yeah. Well – see, he was meant to be a knight. But he got caught with his hand up the king's daughter's skirt, so they chucked him out."

A tone of amused confidence, like an elbow nudged into the man's prodigious gut. Merlin might as well have winked; half the Saxons chuckled in a way expressively sociable. Arthur clenched his jaw to keep it from dropping open and betraying them – Merlin had instantly set their characters and identities for these men as beyond suspicion and wariness.

"And you?"

"I'm his father's bastard. Twice the work for half the glory, so _I_ chucked _them_ and threw my lot in with him." More chuckles, this time, teasingly companionable. Merlin grinned, mischievous and innocent.

"Fortune-seekers," the Saxon leader grunted. "Weapons and stores? What about the boy – he for sale?"

Arthur turned his head, hiding yet another shock – why did he feel like his reaction time was slowed, today? – to see Mordred peeking out from between Arthur's mount and the cart-horse, startled and worried.

"That one's my ma's youngest," Merlin answered easily. "So I can't. But next time, maybe? Is that what you boys are looking for, slaves?"

More than one made assenting noises, their attention drifting to the weapons laid out on the blanket on the ground by their feet. Arthur made a note to address the present-but-illegal slave trade as it impacted Camelot's borders, when he returned home.

Merlin added casually, "Are your numbers down for some reason, then? You're looking for workers? or…"

"Strong arms and backs who won't shirk or make trouble." The Saxon's helmet-covered head bent as he studied the selection – maybe some instinct warned him to identify the best and claim it before the others started grabbing and negotiating.

"Are you mining?"

Every single one of them snapped to attention at the innocuous-sounding question, and Arthur noticed what Merlin must have seen also. At the side of the courtyard was another small gate – facing inward to the tower – a trio of hand-carts in a row, filled with chunks of red-brown rock.

"Something like that," the Saxon leader said warily.

Merlin bobbed his head like it wasn't significant, he was just making conversation, then swung around to Arthur. "Want to pick an unused corner here to make camp in?"

He smiled guilelessly, but his eyes were deep, and Arthur was glad to have him. And it was no small thing that Merlin had chosen to claim him as blood-kin for his subterfuge.

"You could picket your horses and choose a chamber," the Saxon offered, bending to grasp one of the war-axes, spinning it to examine the head.

Arthur opened his mouth to reject the offer, but didn't have to.

"What, sleep inside on such a fine night as it'll be, tonight?" Merlin huffed good-humoredly. "Nah, we won't disturb your occupation of this place. My brother's horse was maybe developing colic, too, so we'll be fine out here to keep an eye on it. Now, let's talk trade…"

Arthur turned to take his mount's lead from Mordred, moving the horses and the druid boy slowly but surely away from the Saxons, off to the side near the gate by the mining carts – but not too near.

"He's a very good liar," Mordred said, sounding surprised and disturbed.

Arthur snorted. He hadn't immediately trusted the younger prince himself when they'd met, but Merlin had never lied to him, not really. Not like _that_.

"He wouldn't lie to his friends," he told the boy with quiet conviction. "He won't lie to people he trusts and respects."

Mordred bit his lip pensively, then nodded like he'd decided to be someone Merlin could trust and respect.

"Let's get this stuff off the horses," Arthur suggested, choosing a spot where the wall made a natural corner – that way they'd only have to guard themselves from two directions, through the night. "If he's able to sell to them, we can ride lighter and enjoy the benefits of ready coin, leaving… Have you thought about where you want to go?"

Mordred made a noncommittal noise, focusing all his attention on his horse. It would probably take him as long as Arthur seeing to his own mount and Merlin's, so he let his fingers and hands move with little conscious direction, saving the best of his attention for the knot of men across the courtyard.

Merlin looked surprisingly at ease among the Saxons, not stiff or awkward or nervous but almost lively, leaning back to laugh, bending forward to point, spinning and twisting to demonstrate one or another of the weapons. Then again, Saxons were not so dissimilar to the barbarians of Caerleon; Arthur could see where Merlin was going to make a better-than-decent king of the rather wild land bordering Camelot.

And his shoulder ached. And it didn't want to let him twist or stretch his upper arm past a parallel position at all, not with his elbow bent or straightened, not with his hand over or under or out to the side. And he almost tumbled dizzily over onto his head when he leaned over to let Merlin's saddle drop.

"Do you want to carry the foodstuffs over to Prince Merlin?" Mordred asked quietly, waiting. His arms were full of packages – crossbows hanging off his elbows, the bag of flour under his elbow.

"Yeah, let's do it all now," Arthur decided with a weary sigh. "Then rest. If we're to search for this… key, tonight, we'll need it."

He used his right arm to retrieve the rest of the surplus they'd taken from the bandits, hanging straps over the top of his sore shoulder, tucking things into the crook of his elbow. And with arms full, they made their way across the courtyard, where one poniard remained rejected on the blanket spread to present their goods.

"Here's the rest," Merlin said to the fat Saxon leader, reaching to take the weight off Arthur's sore shoulder – had he been watching Arthur also? or was it only a perceptive guess? "Say," he added, addressing Arthur casually, but with a flash in his blue eyes that alerted Arthur. "Gelynd here says we should be cautious about wandering around, especially at night. He says Ismere's haunted. Especially in the lower levels."

Arthur nearly dropped the packet of crossbow bolts, and Mordred caught his breath audibly. "Ghosts?" Arthur managed, perfectly blank and almost skeptical.

"Blue-glowing specters." Merlin smirked at him – ostensibly half-mocking himself, to anyone else watching, but Arthur read another level in the look. It was possible the Saxons were aware of whatever the Diamair was, maybe even glimpsed it. And it wasn't impossible that they'd heard some rumor or legend, and pursued it themselves.

That would not be a good thing for Albion at all, if these violence-prone foreigners seized the key to all knowledge. There was no way the three of them could retake Ismere and hold it for the duration of his reign and Merlin's, so he figured there had to be some way of smuggling the magical being – creature? – out of the confines of Ismere's catacombs and… relocating it.

Her?

"Well," he drawled in response, aware of the eyes watching his reaction. "The last thing we want is trouble with ghosts. We will stay close to our fire tonight."

…..*….. …..*….. …..*….. …..*….. …..*…..

Gwaine belly-crawled to the top of the ridge. The setting sun was behind him in the west, which meant that anyone sending a casual glance his direction would squint and blink and look away to avoid being blinded – but it also meant he'd throw a shadow and a long one, if he wasn't careful.

Chin almost to the ground, he squirmed forward for a better view.

A mass of men, no neat rows and columns to count. A few horses at the front… say one captain and two seconds, but what was the size of an average Saxon troop on campaign? Not that this was a typical campaign… Say ten, say twelve deep, and…

"Keep your head down," he advised Gareth, wiggling up next to him.

Gwaine's casual, _Want to stay with the horses?_ had been agreed to by a tired, intimidated nod – evidently some few minutes of catching his breath had turned into boredom. Or maybe he was more intimidated to stand alone in the trees behind them than join Gwaine to spy on the enemy.

"You see anything wrong with this spectacle?" he asked in a low, conversational tone.

Gareth shot him an incredulous glance over a fistful of grass. "Enemies on our land?"

Gwaine made a sarcastic noise. Go for the obvious answer first, apparently. But it was interesting that he'd said _our_ when they'd left Orkan-broch behind them hours ago.

"Raiders should be small, fast groups," he said. "Strike and retreat. Border-work. You take an army to a kingdom's heart and you devastate the land in your wake, stealing supplies as you go so your enemy can't close off your retreat behind you. So if it turns to siege you can re-supply."

"Isn't that an army?" Gareth questioned.

"Not even close, little knight." Gwaine began counting under his breath; they weren't moving tight and fast and tense, they had no apparent flankers or scouts, though plenty stragglers.

"What are they doing then?" Gareth persisted. "Aren't they Saxons? Are Saxons stupid?"

"Are you allowed to say _stupid_ , at your age?" Gwaine asked. Never mind; he'd hear worse among the men. "Sometimes other considerations can overcome common sense. For a warrior, for a leader. In this case, I'm guessing greed. They've been promised a prize… by someone…" He scanned the ranks again, wishing he dared get closer – or higher.

"Who?"

Little owl. Gwaine resisted the urge to tussle his dark curls; his nephew considered that being treated like a child, something a young squire didn't appreciate. "Might be a traitor. Someone who can show them a secret way in – a sally port or a siege tunnel or-"

The loose not-formation of mounted men at the head of the column shifted, and he saw her. And bit his tongue on the involuntary expletive, making the pronoun into a curse, instead.

" _Her_."

Gareth repeated the word, startled and uncomprehending. "Her?"

"The woman at the front. Long yellow hair in curls?" Gwaine began sliding backward down the rise as Gareth peered interestedly toward the Saxon leaders. "She's a witch. Met her this spring – she was trying to take Camelot, then."

"Why?" Gareth asked, still watching their enemies, now fascinated. Gwaine shouldn't have said _witch_.

"Revenge on Uther for persecuting magic, mainly." He hissed for his nephew's attention and beckoned to get him to slide down from the rise. They'd have to ride both careful and relentless now, to reach Beckon Cove in time for a warning to do any good.

"Why's she here?" Gareth demanded, gathering dirt and bits of twigs and leaves on his clothes as he joined Gwaine, popping up to trot after him toward their horses.

"I imagine she might've taken Camelot if Merlin hadn't been there," Gwaine said, catching his nephew under the arms and hoisting him to the saddle of his chestnut mare. They'd switch now, distributing weight differently – give his mare a break with little Gareth perched on her back, and push the bay gelding gifted to the boy on his leaving home a little more under Gwaine. Gareth squawked protest; Gwaine ignored him. "I suppose it makes sense to her to come after Merlin, now."

And would it make a difference to tell her, sorry Merlin's not home at the moment? That might convince her, now was the best time to attack. It might send her off after Merlin, vulnerable without Caerleon's men and fortress to help him defend himself. Gwaine would put money on his prince against the witch every day of the week, but the witch plus three hundred Saxons?

"Are we going to see a battle, then?" Gareth asked eagerly. "Are you going to fight? Are we going to see magic?"

Gwaine's heart ached a bit to hear his tone. All too soon the boy would realize that such questions should be asked with dread and a sense of foreboding.

"Yeah," he said grimly, urging the bay gelding – his own mount would keep pace without Gareth's conscious direction – from a trot to a slow, sustainable gallop. "Yeah, I'm afraid we are."

…..*….. …..*….. …..*….. …..*….. …..*…..

Mordred had wondered if he was going to be included in the nighttime search of Ismere's subterranean labyrinth, or whether he'd be disregarded in their camp-corner of the courtyard alone while the princes focused on their more important goal. He wondered if he'd be expected to face the Saxons by himself, if something happened to the illusion Merlin spoke of, to make any casual observer believe in the presence of the three of them – sitting, sleeping, rolling over, stretching, poking the fire…

He was somewhat mollified when a hand was laid on his shoulder, startling him to wakefulness in the pale orange gleam of coals under midnight. The prince of Caerleon, sword at his back, followed the prince of Camelot, sword at his hip, both creeping in soundless wary watchfulness over their things and along the rubble by the wall.

Mordred quick-scrambled from his blanket to rise and follow; he was somewhat apprehensive, also.

He had to remind himself, princes. Neither of them acted lordly or arrogant, unless they were teasing each other. Teasing. Each other. Neither complained to eat humble fare or sleep on the ground; both shrugged off any question of discomfort due to battle-injuries as inconsequential.

Nobility had been a swear-word among the bandits. A reason to hate, a motive for attack.

Mordred cast a glance over his shoulder as he ducked last of all down the mine-passage, making sure they'd alerted no one involuntarily. Making sure no one was coming to the passage independent of suspicion, either.

If he cast back earlier, to the druids, they would have him hating one and worshipping the other – Pendragon, and Emrys. As though the two were such opposites their differences could never be resolved. The more Mordred watched them, the less he could convince himself there were significant differences at all.

The passage never opened overhead, again. There were steep hewn stairs with rope-and-pulley options to lift the hand-carts, rough descending paths through areas that weren't soaring chambers, but more – wide angled cracks in the earth. Walking upright was sometimes possible, but more often Arthur and Merlin had to angle their bodies between floor and ceiling away from the trodden paths.

Which made sense, if they were looking for something – someone – still hidden.

Arthur had a torch in his hand, and he led the way – "I said we'd stick close to our fire tonight, and I'm a man of my word."

It was his quest. Mordred didn't really understand that part, the Knights' Code they referred to, but he did understand following and obeying dreams and visions. Odd that a knight of Camelot and a son of Uther would believe in that sort of thing, and count it a mark of honor.

Merlin, however, occasionally paused to turn his head abruptly away from Arthur's course, as if listening. Mordred could hear nothing, himself – it didn't seem there were any Saxons or slave-workers down here – but if Arthur noticed, he waited too without question, and resumed choosing his own path only after Merlin met his eyes for a quick negative shake of the head.

Mordred wondered if there was any other outlet of the cave-catacombs, or whether they had to find their way back to the courtyard. Whether they could do it before morning, or if they'd know when that was, or if they ought to have brought all their supplies with them, rather than just bread and cold meat and cheese remaining from dinner, and a water-pouch each.

His legs and neck ached by the time he noticed that Arthur had come to a complete stop – not just slowing and casting about in dissatisfaction – crouched under a particularly narrow fold where it opened back up into more deliberate paths and chambers again.

"Have we circled back around?" Merlin asked, his voice echoing a bit, though he spoke quietly.

Mordred was surprised; if he hadn't been keeping track of their relative location and direction, what had he been keeping track of? There were spells for that – Mordred hadn't bothered because he was with these two, after all.

"It might take a month just to map all these spaces and pathways," Arthur declared, sounding frustrated. "How much more time to search them for something hidden. How much _more_ time, for something that's hiding itself."

"At least we know then it won't be easy for the Saxons to find her," Merlin returned quietly. He wasn't watching Arthur, still studying the reaches of their circle of light. "Do you want to go back? We could make like leaving Ismere, leave the horses somewhere, sneak back in and take our time…"

He trailed off, his head snapping all the way around to the right, to a point more behind than in front of them. His hand lifted, but Mordred couldn't tell if it was a gesture readying magic, or reaching for the hilt jutting at an angle over his shoulder.

Arthur didn't immediately notice, in front of both of them and attending to the details of their left flank. "Mordred, do you think you could call to this Diamair like you called to Merlin? Maybe if it knows we're trying to help…"

Mordred blinked, beginning to turn his head back and seeing the blue-white glow like the spherical _gemod_ -light powerful sorcerers could conjure in their palms, hovering above Merlin's. Except, it wasn't round – and it was distant, not to hand.

A human figure, insofar as it had arms and legs, and a head atop shoulders. But each limb appeared eerily elongated – glowing undressed though somehow not naked – and as it turned away to disappear into another crack in the labyrinth, he saw that the head was elongated also.

He shivered, chilled to his bones. The key to all knowledge. All answers. And now, he found, he didn't want to know.

"There," Merlin said hoarsely, making no move.

Arthur saw it – her, and she wasn't moving skittishly as if to hide, only away – and stilled. The glow faded slightly; the Diamair paused like looking over her shoulder, it seemed to Mordred, in invitation, then moved out of sight.

"I should follow?" Arthur said in a low voice.

"We'll wait here," Merlin said. "Only – don't go where we can't see you? If she won't meet with you or speak to you…"

"Yeah," Arthur said. In his place, as the son of Uther Pendragon, Mordred would be unnerved. Hells, he was unnerved anyway. But Arthur set his jaw, lifted his torch, and made his way to the place where they'd seen the Diamair disappear.

Merlin shifted so he didn't have so much of his back to Mordred – a movement of comradeship, not mistrust - though he kept his head turned to follow Arthur's progress.

"I suppose if I was a being of magic threatened by outsiders, I would also seek to contact a champion in a vision-trance," he said in a low voice, so he wouldn't distract Arthur. "The key is waiting. I am waiting to show you… I only hope it wants help from Arthur Pendragon, not…"

Revenge, Mordred didn't say. "Ismere is beyond Camelot's borders," he offered." It could have no personal reason for hating Arthur for his father's sake.

Merlin only grunted, unconvinced by Mordred's unspoken argument. Because there were plenty of folk associated with magic who'd taken deep and abiding insult at the Ban and the Purge, though they themselves and their loved ones and acquaintances had been safe enough. "I don't sense any antipathy, though…"

"What do you sense?" Mordred dared to ask in a whisper. He was pretty sure the prince heard him, and took no offense at the question.

But Merlin didn't answer, focused on Arthur.

Who moved forward at that moment, and out of their line of sight.

 **A/N:** _ **Smeldian wyrd:**_ **"to make known what is secret, to reveal, to disclose destiny/fate."**

 **Sorry, cliffie. A bit. And late, a bit – but it's a longer chapter a bit, too, so no one minds? I find I'm a bit intimidated to write the Diamair the way I want to, but I promise to tackle it seriously this week-end…**


	10. The Diamair

**Chapter 10: The Diamair**

Arthur approached the creature – the being – slowly and cautiously. He could sense neither wariness nor hostility, but maybe… shy curiosity.

The unearthly being glowed blue-white, illuminated somehow from beneath translucent but featureless skin. Not obviously male or female, and everything about it – her? – was _long_. Neck, fingers, feet – if she stood straight, she'd be head and shoulders above Arthur, though every part of her was impossibly slender, also. And she studied him in return, every part of him like she'd never seen a human before, because he was not really remarkable in any way.

Her eyes ended at the sword-hilt riding his hip, and he wondered if he ought to have disarmed himself before approaching.

He wondered what he ought to say; he'd never been tongue-tied before human royalty or nobility. He decided to say everything, and leave nothing out, and hope not to give offense to such an alien creature.

"Good evening," he began with, and inclined head and shoulders respectfully. "I beg your pardon if we've intruded in any way. My name is Arthur Pendragon – I was following a vision, on a quest, to come here and seek the key to all knowledge. Is that you?"

"Yes," she said only, and her voice rasped worse than the king of Caerleon's. It was like the dry grind of seaside rocks with sand between them, almost incomprehensible.

"How do you do?" he continued politely.

"Not at all well." Each word was forced out as if throat or mouth or both were unbearably dry.

"I…" With introductory pleasantries answered so disconcertingly, he wasn't sure where to go from there. "I'm terribly sorry you're not well – is there perhaps anything I can do to help?"

She blinked, and gave him a small smile. "Yes, there is."

"Well – what?"  
"Food, and water." Another gentle smile.

"Of course," he said, still feeling slightly unprepared for the encounter. "Of course. I've got some bread and salt pork – and here's my waterskin. Would you perhaps like to sit down?" Holding out his waterskin, he gestured to an area behind her, a ledge extending over the slanted floor of the irregular chamber about three feet off the ground.

She took the strap of the waterskin and moved to arrange her long slender limbs in a sitting position. "It makes no difference. Sitting, standing, lying down. I am still… a prisoner."

Arthur lowered himself to sitting next to her, setting the torch down on the ground, leaning against the ledge between them. Reaching into the sack slung over his shoulder for the food to offer her, he could not help thinking of the Great Dragon chained beneath Camelot's citadel nearly twenty years.

"I'm sorry, I didn't realize – I suppose I assumed that, given your magic and your survival and longevity, you wouldn't need… um. Ordinary human sustenance?"

She blinked and took the bread from his hand and began to nibble – more inquisitively than ravenously.

"I'm sorry, it's not my intention to offend you," he added, feeling awkward and inept. And slow; he was tired and sore. Last watch of the night – or early morning – and his shoulder throbbed when a pattering rush of noise behind him made him jerk and twist around to face it.

It was only Merlin – and Mordred close behind him – face taut with concern in the dim flickering light from the torch propped near Arthur's knee. "Beg pardon," the younger prince said, relaxing. "You moved out of our sight, and I thought…"

"Sorry," Arthur responded, too spent to try for sarcasm. "It's fine."

Merlin nodded and crouched down where he stood, keeping Arthur in the side of his vision but facing Mordred more fully – not joining the conversation but not entirely out of earshot, either. Arthur could not help thinking of the look on Merlin's face when he first saw the griffon chained below Camelot – and then the Questing Beast in the wood – and he turned back to the Diamair.

"Do you mind if my friends join us?" he asked. "They're not from Camelot. Well, I suppose Mordred is, he's a druid, but Merlin is magic, too. He's the prince of Caerleon."

"Yes," she said simply, responding to his statement introducing Merlin, more than the question itself. She turned the chunk of bread to keep nibbling, and he was reminded, _all knowledge_.

"Do you know of Merlin already?" he asked curiously.

"I know of Emrys," she said simply.

"Oh." Arthur stared into the placid luminous face. After Gaius' cryptic remark at Merlin's departure from Camelot, he'd asked the old physician – somewhat offhandedly – for an explanation. What he got was a bit disconcerting – druidic prophecy, and Merlin's own willing ignorance. "So he _is_ , then."

"He is." The Diamair watched him with something like sympathy in her expression.

"I shouldn't tell him, should I?" Arthur added.

She smiled, and shook her hairless head in a fluid motion. "You should not."

Arthur twisted stiffly, and hissed for Merlin's attention, beckoning for him and Mordred to join them. Merlin alerted instantly, stepping down into the chamber and moving to an at-ease attentive position halfway between Arthur and the Diamair. It made him think of the knights, reporting to or receiving orders from the king; it gave him a moment of discomfort til he realized, the respect of the posture was for the Diamair.

Mordred was more hesitant, creeping in behind Arthur's boots and curling up on the floor of the cave, leaning against the ledge where Arthur sat, facing Merlin rather than the Diamair. Arthur supposed it wasn't surprising for the boy to be intimidated; he'd caught that feeling of awkwardness and awe from the young druid to be with him and Merlin, both crown princes, at different times during their journey; it was something he hoped would wear away with time and familiarity.

"If you need anything else, I would be happy to provide," Merlin commented solicitously, gesturing to the bread in her hand.

"Many creatures of magic do not need physical sustenance," she explained compassionately. "For my kind, we discovered that the consumption of human food gave us the appearance of a human."

"That's fascinating," Merlin said contemplatively.

"But if you can take on the appearance of a human, why are you trapped down here?" Arthur said. Merlin made an abortive gesture of distress as if to stop his question, but Arthur's mouth ignored him. "I mean, how did it happen?"

The Diamair looked at Merlin a moment, finishing the bread and taking a long swallow from Arthur's waterskin. "We came here long ago, through a portal opened from our own dying world, and now I am the last of my kind. Once we were revered by all... but those days are long... gone. For hundreds of years, we were shunned and hunted till I found myself... alone. And now, even this last refuge is safe... no more. Consuming your food made it possible for us to hide in plain sight, living and moving among men, departing when suspicions about our abilities woke."

"When people began to think you were more than a wise old woman, a Seer with magic," Merlin guessed.

She nodded. "I was caught here. I refused to answer their selfish and ill-considered questions, even when they insisted…"

Arthur twitched, his immediate suspicion, _torture_. A glance at Merlin from the corner of his eye told him the idea had occurred to the other prince, too.

"But when they deprived me of food and water and I began to change back to this…" She swept a long-fingered hand expressively above the length of her impossible legs. "I answered one question for a young man who agreed to free me, but I could not escape entirely, so I merely hid. Men have been searching for me ever since, trapping me here."

"Where would you go if you could?" Arthur asked curiously.

She smiled gently and blinked languidly, and took up a strip of salt pork from its packet. "I would go somewhere else. Everywhere else."

Arthur opened his mouth to suggest, _Camelot?_ Because _quest_ , and _proof_ , and _prize_.

But, even if the Diamair could pass for human, and even if she agreed and Merlin accompanied them to provide protection, he couldn't. He couldn't. Any more than he could have pressured Mordred for help based on the years-ago rescue in the druid's childhood.

Instead he said, "We'll help you. We'll get you out of here, take you wherever you wish to go…"

He felt Merlin's eyes on him, and Mordred's from near his knee, and hoped neither of them would say, _What about your quest?_ Because now it seemed a bit… silly, to think of bringing a _person_ to show the council, _I can do this, I'm ready_. He'd tell them – well, he supposed he'd tell them the truth, after swearing them to confidentiality. Maybe it would be better to leave it up to Merlin to escort the Diamair where she wished to go, just so he didn't know. Couldn't change his mind, or inadvertently reveal what shouldn't be known.

"I thank you," the Diamair said, her voice raspy and halting and grave.

"Please, eat and drink as much as you want," Arthur said. "If it isn't enough for you to appear human, we can return to our campsite…"

"It will be enough for now," she said. "It will take some moments for the effect to be complete."

Merlin moved, reaching down toward Mordred, murmuring, "Here, let me have this…" The boy shifted, acquiescing, and Merlin straightened with the boy's druid cloak in hand, shaking it out and offering the garmet to the Diamair. "We have extra clothing with our things in the courtyard, but for now…"

She tucked the cloak around her, over one shoulder and under the other arm, with calm graceful movements, and repeated, "I thank you."

As she continued to consume the salt pork carefully and almost daintily, Merlin shifted his weight and crossed his arms over his chest and said softly, "I wonder…"

"What?" Arthur asked him. The Diamair blinked at Merlin with a soft look that wasn't quite a smile.

"If you cannot be forced to answer a question, how do you then decide when to speak and when to keep silent," he said. "I wonder about the source of Arthur's vision that brought him here – that brought us here, to offer you aid."

"I have not the gift of foresight, only of truth." She sighed, chewing slowly and methodically. "There have been questions asked of me that I knew to answer would have terrible results. There have been questions asked of me when I knew giving the answer would cause less harm than remaining silent. Yes, I can answer a question when doing so suits my own needs and purposes – but I cannot volunteer information, and answer a question that has not been asked."

"Well, that's good," Arthur said bluntly.

Merlin made a noise of agreement; it didn't seem like he was going to ask any question at all, in his caution to receive no truth from this unfairly advantageous source, even inadvertently. Arthur understood that; it was the issue of cause and effect easily recognized by anyone with any sort of power. When to act and when to refrain; how much help to give and at what point did aid actually become detrimental to the recipient, no matter the initial intention. And if Mordred was going to be too shy to say anything, there were no worries, there.

"But you don't have to wait to speak til you're spoken to?" Arthur added. "If you have any needs, or concerns, please let us know – it may be difficult and maybe even dangerous, leaving this place. It is still occupied by Saxons."

The Diamair hummed agreement, finishing the meat and focusing on the waterskin and there was a look in her dark eyes – had they always been brown? – that knocked Arthur momentarily breathless.

Because now he wanted to ask. _Are the Saxons a threat to Camelot, to Albion. Will they be a threat in the future? How can I drive them from Ismere, or from our shores altogether – should I even try? When would be the best time for such a campaign…_

He clenched his jaw tight and bent to reclaim the torch before surging to his feet. Mordred was startled, and scrambled to keep Arthur between himself and the Diamair – whose blue glow was definitely fading.

"Morning's coming," Arthur said brusquely, addressing Merlin more than the other two. "It'll be easier to leave while most of them are still asleep."

Merlin nodded. "I can lead us back to the mine entrance?"

He was glad for that; he was not at all sure he could, without missteps and re-tracings, not in his current state of weariness and distraction. He handed Merlin the torch and turned to accept the empty waterskin and food-sack as the Diamair rose, tucking the cloak more securely around herself. She was about Arthur's own height, now, fingers and feet only slightly longer than normal, the blue-white illumination only barely more than a glimmer under skin that seemed a shade or two darker than Guinevere's.

She said, "Good morning, Mordred," kindly, and followed Merlin with the torch.

Arthur gave the startled druid boy half a smile – more of a grimace, really – to reassure him, nothing to worry about, and paid attention to the slight few noises Mordred made, following him up and out. To be certain they didn't lose him, but not so much that he appeared to be keeping track of Mordred like a small and incapable child.

It seemed a very long way back, though their route had been circuitous rather than crow's-flight straight, and he believed Merlin was leading them on as short a trip as possible. Exhaustion weighed him down like the chainmail he hadn't brought with him, too conspicuous for traveling alone and unremarked. What if it was past dawn already? What if the Saxons were early risers? Even if there was no hint of magic in the Diamair's appearance, was there any way they could hide the presence of a fourth in their company? There was bound to be suspicions and questions – he did not see how even Merlin could talk them out of this.

They'd have to fight. They'd have to hope to slip to their camp-corner and saddle the horses – couldn't leave them behind, after all, not and evade any pursuit. And his stomach turned at the thought of killing all of them, as they'd killed all the bandits. He hated to think what that would do to Merlin, either. Even if they had to…

But mounted, they'd be perfect targets, and if the horses were unsettled by any hint of the Diamair's magic and Mordred's inexperience, then it would that much more difficult getting out of the courtyard, through the gate, across the plain, and away from anyone tracking them. He and Merlin would have to protect the other two; perhaps he should take the time to give Mordred a few pointers in handling the old sword the bandits had allowed him to carry – if they made it out of this unharmed.

He tried to stretch his shoulder as they walked and slid and scrambled, upward and towards out, but it was still sore, and sent spikes of sharper pain through the dull throbbing. It felt hot through the fabric of his bandages and shirt.

"Does your shoulder hurt?" Mordred asked in a low voice behind him. His tone added, _I'm sorry_ …

"It's fine," Arthur said easily, dismissively. No reason for the boy to worry any more than he already was.

And then Merlin was extinguishing the torch with a gesture, and there was the medium-blue of pre-dawn sky behind his darkened silhouette. And not so much as a glimmer from the Diamair, who looked back at him from a round brown face inches lower than his own, wrinkles at the corners of her eyes and mouth and neck only enhancing the absolute serenity of her expression.

"Hair?" he said without thinking.

She blinked and smiled. "It will grow in time."

Behind him Mordred made a noise like he hadn't completely strangled an incredulous snicker.

And Merlin slipped back from the open courtyard gate, right up next to Arthur where he could speak softly in his ear, swiftly private. "If you can get my things packed and my gelding saddled, I can get us across the courtyard and through the gate without raising any alarm. Most of the Saxons are still asleep."

Arthur's shoulder gave a weary throb of protest, but it was a fair trade, if it could work. He twisted just enough to address his own murmur to Merlin's ear. "What are you going to do, knife them in their sleep?" He was only about half joking.

Merlin clicked his tongue in mock offense. "What do you think I am, a barbarian?"

Quick gleam of a grin, and then he was gone.

Arthur's shoulder pulsed again, and he rolled his head on his shoulders to ease the creeping tension. And before he had time to prepare himself, the Diamair had reached a soft hand to his shoulder and rasped softly – eerily – several syllables of foreign-sounding words.

He jerked away without thinking, leaving her upraised hand in midair.

"It was a healing spell," Mordred whispered.

Arthur felt stupid and ungrateful, and held himself still. "I apologize – I reacted without thinking."

And Mordred asked his first question, speaking to the Diamair for the first time; his tone held cautious wonder. "You have magic, as well as truth?"

She gave him a tranquil smile. "Not much."

Second question, and Arthur was twice as surprised by it. "You can't help him, then?"

"If I had several days to repeat the spell, possibly," the Diamair told them both. "I cannot heal completely and immediately, but I can _help_. If you will allow me."

"Ah," Arthur said, feeling a wave of heat rush over his face. But it was different than asking or allowing either Merlin or Mordred. "Yes, then, and thank you – we need to hurry and leave."

She touched him again, and it felt almost motherly, the way he had seen Hunith touch Merlin, the way Arthur had never been touched, himself. She spoke the same strange words again, and more, and he felt a drop of cool spread over his skin, calming the hot throb to a low pulse. Manageable.

"Thank you," he said again. "Out to the left and keep close to the wall and quiet. Follow me."

This time Mordred hung back behind the Diamair, as if he'd overcome shy reticence with the assumption of responsibility for her safety, in Merlin's absence. Arthur cast a glance over the rest of the courtyard and saw no movement. Evidently the Saxons cooked and slept inside the fortress tower chambers, but a pair of enormous braziers on the guard walkway on the wall illuminated part of the courtyard, as well as the path down to the plain, and provided something of a beacon-point for any who might be in the area.

He rather thought the guards stationed there would be watching inward to their party, as the only obvious strangers for leagues around, but he couldn't immediately locate them visually. In the absence of any warning bell, he quickened his steps to the camp and kept his end of Merlin's offer.

The Diamair dressed hurriedly under the cover of the cloak – trousers and tunic and bare feet didn't seem to bother her – and made sure of Merlin's packing, such as it was. Mordred struggled his own saddle and secured belongings to the back of the cart-horse, and Arthur managed to ready his mount without taking too much extra time. He shoved the heavy saddle up to Shadow's back with his right arm, reaching to adjust and bending to tighten and buckle, keeping his left elbow tucked to his side as much as possible. And if the Diamair hadn't _helped_ , it would have been agony to turn and do the same for Merlin's gelding.

And he was sure, then, that Merlin was unaware of his diminishing strength and increasing weakness due to his injury. It occurred to him then that it wasn't healing on its own, and would rather continue to get worse without some form of medicine or magic.

Time enough to worry about that, later.

He chose to offer Shadow to the Diamair to ride, in the interests of keeping mobility should it be necessary, and wished aloud that there was some way of silencing the horses' hooves across the courtyard.

"Ah," Mordred said, fiddling with his reins and lifting his knees slightly as Arthur settled the old-woman Diamair in his saddle. "I could – there's a spell that – magic?"

Arthur snorted to himself – and nodded emphatic thanks at Mordred.

And they crossed the courtyard as the sky was lightening – rays of sunshine stretching high and diffuse before they could break the horizon. It was deserted; the Saxons had chosen to sleep indoors even after Merlin had knocked the notion. Perhaps they had proper beds and mattresses.

A lone figure rose up over the battlements atop the gate as they approached, sending Arthur's heart shooting up to his throat. But the man was bare-headed, rather than covered by helmet and face-guard, and the hilt of his sword jutted over his shoulder in a familiar way.

He beckoned; Arthur led Merlin's gelding over to the wall as he swung one leg, then the other over the parapet, and lowered himself to standing on his saddle. Then, instead of dropping to take his seat and find the stirrups with his boots, he bent his knees and slipped all the way to the ground at Arthur's side.

"The guards are asleep," he reported in a low hurried voice – belied a bit by the gleam of his grin. "They won't remember why, though."

"Good," Arthur returned, indicating that Merlin should help him unbar the door. Quietly, cooperatively, and he caught Merlin passing his hand over the great hinges of the gate-

And understood why, when it opened without so much as a single squeak or groan.

Could it really be so easy? Now that he'd reached his quest's goal – never mind that it wasn't what he thought and he couldn't take it home – was his path to be cleared of all obstacles?

"You ride," Merlin told him tersely, as they passed through the gate followed by Mordred on the cart-horse and the dark-skinned Diamair on Arthur's mount. "I'll keep up in the rear. I want to make sure we get away free and clear – it tickles me to think of them waking to find us gone. I wonder how long they'll search the mine before they realize it's empty?"

It might tickle Arthur too, if he weren't so weary and achy. He hoisted himself up to Merlin's saddle – the stirrups were a fraction overlong, but nothing to make him uncomfortable enough to adjust.

Then down the winding path carved into the rocky base of the tower. He felt superstitious about glancing back, as if that would cause the Saxons to take note of them somehow, and realize they'd come with three and were leaving with four. It was a childish conceit, maybe, to believe that if one couldn't see, one couldn't be seen, but he kept his eyes on the footing in front of them, and out to the plain. Every moment more detail was apparent, the perception of distance more accurate. The imminence of freedom made his heart beat high and his mouth go dry.

And there was no warning bell.

At the bottom of the path Merlin hissed for Arthur's attention; he glanced over his shoulder to see the other prince settle himself behind Mordred on the cart-horse, and motion for Arthur to get on with it.

A bit of speed was warranted, now. Swiftly he leaned to gather the reins of his gray mount from the Diamair. _No offense intended, but are you a good horseman? woman? being? Hundreds of years below Ismere, after all_ … He was light-headed, maybe.

"Hold on," he told her, and nudged Merlin's gelding firmly in the flanks with the heels of his boots.

Light spilled over the horizon and he instinctively headed in that direction. East to the mountains – the foothills would conceal them sooner than the sparse wooded areas further south. And this was Merlin's direction, after all. Up to the White Mountains… The soothing comfort of the Diamair's spell wore off under the steady thumping of even the smoothest cantering gait, and he began to think stopping for breakfast a good idea. They weren't being chased – but if the Saxons woke with any suspicions about their clandestine departure, they might be followed. Scouted.

Arthur shifted his weight in the saddle, and Merlin's well-trained gelding slowed to a briefly choppy trot and then a walk, and he twisted to look behind him at his companions. The Diamair looked stoic; Mordred's eyes were half-closed, and Merlin turned to face forward from a backward glance of his own. He met Arthur's eyes with a decisive nod; in his opinion there was no need to worry about pursuit.

"Let's stop here," Arthur suggested.

The rest of his body was adjusting to the strenuous demands of a campaign, after several days now away from Camelot, but as he dismounted, the jolt through his shoulder and out his skull just over his left eye, where the scab was starting to heal, made him hold his gasp a moment to avoid betraying weakness to the others.

Merlin left Mordred to tumble down from the cart-horse on his own, and distributed a sort of flatbread he must have gotten from the Saxons in partial-payment, and some dried fish. The Diamair attempted to return Mordred's cloak to him; the druid boy turned scarlet in stammering refusal, and she wandered a few steps away from the three of them and the horses, looking past the foothills to the northeast. Arthur watched her a moment as he munched the crusty, tasteless bread, and exchanged a glance with Merlin that said without needing words, _She's not going to stay with us_.

"Arthur Pendragon," she said without turning around.

He found himself scrambling up from his weary sprawl on the ground and swallowing fast to join her, polite and attentive. Behind him, he was aware of Merlin rolling to his feet also, beginning to put together a pack – for the Diamair, he guessed – a blanket rolled around a portion of their food supplies. Mordred said something to him that contained the word _horse_ ; Merlin shrugged, hands busy and mouth full of breakfast.

The morning sunshine produced a glow of another sort on her round brown cheeks, but there was an ageless strength to the expression of her eyes that made her ancient and enduring, rather than merely old. Her scalp was covered with tiny black curls of hair, he noticed, and a few coiled strands of gray among them.

"I will part from you here," she told him mildly, not shifting her faraway gaze from the hilly horizon. They were near enough that the other two could hear what she said, though she'd chosen to address Arthur. "And seek a new path for my feet."

"Are you sure you don't wish an escort?" Arthur said. "Of course we would be willing-"

"I am sure." Then she met his eyes, with a gentle smile.

Merlin joined them, cramming the last of his bread and fish in his mouth and holding the pack ready for her; it contained one of his boot-knives, Arthur saw, and a small pouch of what could only be coins.

"I saw your heart, Arthur Pendragon, before you began this quest, but I did not know what your choice would be, when we met. I am proud to know this path you have chosen, to accept magic and care for those who use it, and I am glad that yours crossed with mine. I wish you fare well, King Arthur, you and all those who belong to you."

Behind them, Mordred mumbled something about taking the cart-horse; she shook her head gently, accepting the pack from Merlin's hand with a glance of serene gratitude.

King Arthur. He felt a warmth in his face he could not deny. Not yet king. Not yet ready, not yet proven – and now he wasn't sure he could. He'd be returning empty-handed, hoping to be believed – but if there was doubt and skepticism among the nobles and members of the council and the senior knights, that would be a poor and unstable foundation for his reign. He could expect to deal with the consequences of that sooner or later.

He felt a complete and utter failure, in the moment, and it was partly from desperation that he blurted, "That's it, then? No parting words of wisdom or advice?"

Merlin made a noise like he'd been elbowed, and choked on his swallow. And just too late, Arthur realized what he'd done.

She regarded him with melancholy sympathy, and said, "Arthur. Your bane is your self. He who never trusts is never betrayed, and you give your trust fully and freely, for one in your position. However, there is another side to that coin – your capacity for trust is potentially the greatest strength of your kingdom. Glory and victory for your people, and pain for yourself, in the end."

Arthur stood rigid. He felt he'd been slapped – or stabbed… with an icicle… or turned to stone, maybe. He'd never heard anything so casually devastating – and _true_ , which made it ten times worse.

Bloody hells, this quest was going to test him to the utmost depths of his being.

He was aware of the Diamair taking leave of the other two; he watched her begin to trudge away with her slow-graceful walk; he watched her take step after step after step and diminish toward the distance. And disappear behind the toe of a foothill.

He was aware that Merlin stood very near to him, watching his face instead of the retreating figure of the magical being.

"Arthur…" he said.

"You said you were close," Arthur interrupted, not looking at him. Not wanting to discuss what had just been said. "When Mordred called you. You said you could tell that you were close. To the dragon. To your father."

Merlin made a noise of assent.

"I'll go with you," Arthur continued. "And Mordred, if he likes." In the corner of his vision, Merlin shifted like he was glancing at the boy for his reaction to the suggestion. "You aided my quest, it is only fair that I aid yours."

And Mordred would not have to choose, yet, whether to follow Merlin or whether to let Arthur take him someplace else for a new start – if that was what he wanted, if he didn't simply look away to the horizon and start to walk. And, just because Arthur's quest had disintegrated around him, didn't mean that Merlin had to be similarly frustrated.

"You don't have to," Merlin said in a low voice. "Arthur. You don't have to feel obligated-"

"If you two are done dawdling over breakfast," Arthur raised his voice to say sarcastically, turning away to claim his mount's reins, dangling to the ground to keep the well-trained animal in place. "Let's get going."

…..*….. …..*….. …..*….. …..*….. …..*…..

Mordred didn't exactly mind riding tandem with Merlin. It was more the pace, and the discomfort, and the fear of discovery by the Saxons that made him uneasy and uncomfortable.

"It's all right," Merlin had told him, breathlessly and at once, where the winding path to Ismere's gates met the rough level of the plain. "We're safe now, we'll get away."

 _Emrys_ , his mind echoed to reassure him. They weren't really in that much danger; Merlin could and would protect them. His heart ignored that reasoning and continued to flutter in his chest, twisting his stomach and drying his throat.

But once that had been left behind them with the receding shape of the black tower, the physical ache of unaccustomed riding had taken over his perception of the world very quickly, and the temporary stop for breakfast was not enough to make him comfortable when they mounted again, even though the Diamair had departed and they each rode their own horse.

So it was done, Prince Arthur's quest. He was surprised at how quickly… but couldn't help suspect Arthur's dissatisfaction with the conclusion. He would have nothing to show those waiting in Camelot for his return.

Maybe that was why he had elected not to return immediately, but to ride with Merlin instead.

Mordred, riding between Merlin in the lead – up steep slopes and picking a careful way over the abrupt drops between them – and Arthur behind, glanced back at the Pendragon prince. They were all tired after missing out on the night's sleep, but Arthur rode laxly, his chin to his chest and his body swaying with the gait of his horse. And Mordred decided.

The two princes would part ways eventually. And as fascinating as it might be to request a position near Emrys, to watch someone else's grand destiny unfold, he would offer to go with Arthur. He could swear to do no magic in Camelot, he could suggest a temporary dispensation in order to give whatever testimony Arthur might require of him, to whomever he had to report to about his quest. Mordred could be the proof Arthur needed, that he'd found the object of his search and behaved nobly to care for and free her.

That is, if he still trusted Mordred to do so.

Because maybe – he glanced back again, shivering without his cloak as a sudden wind gusted against them – Arthur's preoccupation had more to do with the Diamair's parting words than her parting as such. He knew he wouldn't want to be told that someday he would trust the wrong person with potentially disastrous results. Especially if his decision to trust affected a whole kingdom.

Anyway, trust wasn't an issue for him. He didn't do it often; he knew people didn't deserve it. Even when they wanted to keep promises and be dependable, circumstances were out of their control. Like fearing the Saxons of Ismere even when he rode in the protective company of Emrys.

Or like these circumstances.

"Careful here!" Merlin twisted in his saddle to call back. "There's a bit of a path round the crown of this hill, but it's steep up ahead on the left."

Mordred leaned a bit to look past the prince's shoulder, and could see where the gentle curve of the hill dropped away. Weathering, maybe, it looked like a chunk of the slope had been sheared away, and… shattered into rocky bits at the bottom of a gorge that was… deeper than he expected.

He shivered, not sure he was going to like the mountains so much. Or at least, he wasn't going to enjoy traveling in them.

Now they were on Merlin's quest, evidently. Princes, he supposed, would have loftier goals than anyone else – the Diamair, and the Dragon. Or maybe it was because Merlin and Arthur were more than just the princes and heirs of their kingdoms, they were Emrys and-

He twisted to look back again, to gauge whether he was going to need to repeat Merlin's warning for Arthur.

Hopefully he was going to be able to avoid the dragon's regard like he had the Diamair's – though why should it pay attention to him with men like Merlin and Arthur around? – and maybe it would be a single night, and they'd be on their way in the morning. And maybe he wasn't surprised to find that the sorcerer Emrys was also a prince _and_ a dragonlord.

Arthur's head bobbed and lifted, his eyes meeting Mordred's concern with a look of blank exhaustion – but still aware enough for sufficient comprehension and caution.

Mordred faced forward again, trying to shift his weight in the saddle to ease the misery outside and the apprehension inside-

And something gave. Something slipped – snapped? – _but Arthur inspected every inch of tack!_ The cart-horse twitched, distracted and upset, itself. A rear hoof slewed off the path.

He'd saddled the cart-horse himself, hurried and in the dim predawn.

One knee hiked way up to his chin as he fought to keep balance and his mounted position. He dropped the reins for a better grip on failing leather – on nervous horseflesh-

He hadn't named his horse, he realized.

It stamped and whinnied and hitched its hindquarters, panicky and uncomfortable.

"Mordred, jump off!" Arthur shouted. "To your right, or to the rear-"

Part of the crumbling path suddenly crumbled further, and it wasn't just him sliding off the horse or the horse sliding over the side, it was the ground sliding away and taking both of them with it. The world tipped.

The ravine gaped, opening to swallow him, drawing him down and he couldn't contort his body to escape. He flung himself backward, gasping in fear, felt the saddle slip away-

Felt the horse's mane whipping his face as it shrieked and scrabbled uselessly.

He closed his eyes and tensed for impact-

…..*….. …..*….. …..*….. …..*….. …..*…..

Merlin's first warning was Arthur's shout. And the words didn't matter so much as his tone – urgent, and desperate.

He tried to twist around to see, but Mordred's mount whuffled-whinnied- _shrieked_ , and Merlin's own gelding reacted nervous-panicky, dancing hooves and flickering ears. Merlin finally released the reins, kicking his leg over the horse's withers, dropping to the ground and having to catch his balance so he wasn't pulled over the edge-

Over the edge, where the cart-horse was thrashing to regain the path and only sliding further and-

He couldn't see Mordred at all.

Arthur was down from his saddle, staggering to the edge of the path – on his knees and leaning to reach. His left arm collapsed suddenly beneath his weight, almost sending him headfirst down the steep slope.

Merlin leaped to brace him, throwing one arm over Arthur's shoulder and across his chest, holding him in place as Mordred's horse lost its feet and rolled – kicking and neighing shrilly – raising dust and dislodging stones. Down and down and _down_ …

The halting thud was gruesomely obvious at the bottom, and the beast was still.

Arthur was swearing breathlessly, moving slightly against Merlin's arm as if he wanted to descend also, even carefully and slowly, and then Merlin saw Mordred.

Twenty paces down, sprawled on the slope and caught, it seemed, on the slightest of outcroppings, little more than a portion of the slope less vertical than the rest, where his weight was supported and arrested, rather than pulled downward. But his clothing was colored with dust and littered with smaller stones, surrounded by a handful of larger rocks, and he wasn't moving.

"Did the horse go over the top of him?" Merlin demanded, letting go of Arthur once he was sure his friend wasn't headed over the edge too.

"No, it missed him," Arthur answered curtly, focused on the boy's body. "He went first, but it rolled down just beyond him."

"Stay here," Merlin said.

Did they have rope long enough to reach that point? He didn't remember; he didn't want to wait. If Mordred woke groggy and began to struggle, he'd tumble all the way down, headlong and uncontrolled. And Arthur's shoulder wasn't doing nearly so well as he wanted Merlin to believe. Add to that his turmoil over the Diamair's words…

"Merlin…" Arthur began, but cut himself off as Merlin stepped over the side. Probably he didn't want to distract him when he needed all his attention.

The footing was almost actively treacherous. Loose earth, rocks that shifted, weeds whose roots sprang loose. He headed down slightly to the side of Mordred so he wouldn't knock anything down onto the boy. Keeping his weight as close to the ground as possible, controlling each sliding step, he actually came to a stop below Mordred, and had to climb back up to reach him.

The boy was breathing, but his right arm was flung awkwardly above his shoulder and to the side, against the snub nose of buried rock – maybe the one thing that had halted his fall.

Merlin was breathing hard and trembling from fighting the malevolent pull of gravity. Carefully he rested on the ground at Mordred's side. If the boy woke panicky, he could start both of them into a deadly falling slide again.

"Mordred," he said, feeling into the side of the boy's neck. Was his pulse sluggish, or just calm? "Mordred. Hey. Open your eyes?"

There was no response.

A sharp whistle caught his attention back up to the path – the path he'd chosen, after all, and with more of his attention occupied with searching for magical trace of the dragon's location than with his companions' traversing of his route behind him.

Arthur tossed the coil of a rope down to him, keeping hold of one end of it. Merlin lifted himself to catch it before it could slap across Mordred and maybe startle him. Arthur turned to secure his end to his mount's saddle for aid in pulling them up, and Merlin prepared to fasten his end under Mordred's arms and over his chest.

The distance back up to the path looked twice as hazardous from down here.

Bloody _hells_. Got everyone out of Ismere without any altercation with the Saxons, and now _this_.

"All right," he called up to Arthur. "Get ready to pull him up."

 **A/N: Almost left y'all with an actual cliff-hanger this time…**

 **Also, some dialogue from ep.5.2 "Arthur's Bane".**


	11. Balinor the Dragonlord

**Chapter 11: Balinor the Dragonlord**

Mordred blinked at a wide expanse of swirling misty blue-gray, and realized it was the sky. He sensed his body was in motion, but he couldn't feel much, and it didn't concern him. He was being moved.

Then someone's face took up half the sky, and someone was speaking very fast, like a brook bubbling over the rocks and sticks that tried to obstruct it, urgently fluid.

"Mordred. Hey, Mordred. Can you hear me? Are you all right? Are you in any pain right now? Hold on, hold still, we're almost there. We almost made it – Arthur, your hand! No, for him…"

The movement ceased. Hands were thrust behind him, head and shoulders and neck, and he was angled upright through no volition of his own. The world swam, and he closed his eyes again – but before everything receded into nothing, he remembered Arthur. And Merlin.

When Mordred opened his eyes again, his body was in motion, but of a different kind. Rocking, and mild distant thudding reverberations, and through the fog he could see the ground too far away. The slender bare columns of trees, not numerous or close enough to be a forest or even a wood, sliding into view and passing eventually behind him, to either side.

His body leaned, tipping to one side and the further he leaned the faster he tipped and wasn't that a curious effect.

There was shouting, and he was grabbed roughly and pain whited everything out but somehow he was suspended between the sky and the earth – he'd fallen but he hadn't struck bottom-

This time? Last time?

A pair of strong arms gathered him up like scooping fish from a stream in a net, and it was Merlin's face above him – drawn with worry, but smiling.

"I've got you," he said, his voice deep as the earth. "It's all right. I've got you."

Oh, because it was Arthur who was going to struggle with his decisions to trust people. And Emrys was… Emrys was…

…..*….. …..*….. …..*….. …..*….. …..*…..

Merlin reflected, rather grimly, there was no point going back. Even if the Saxons suspected nothing and hadn't tracked them, it would be at least two days if not three at the slow pace they could manage currently, to reach anyone in the northern estates of Caerleon who could help them.

So it was onward. He remembered being told that the dragonlords often had skill in healing magic – and did not want to guess how those two disparate disciplines might fit together – and that was his hope and his need, at the moment.

It was a little ironic, though, that his companions needed to find his father more than he did.

 _Hello!_ he tried. _Beg your pardon for presumption, but… if you are who I think you are, we could use some help!_ Even if the voice wasn't who he suspected it could be, they could use any help they could get.

He stopped to catch his breath, his legs burning from hiking the rough terrain as swiftly as the laden horses could handle. The mountain winds whipped his hair around his face and the sleeves of his indigo shirt where the breastplate didn't hold the fabric tight to his body. His extra shirt had gone for a makeshift sling for Mordred's arm – the boy hadn't roused fully but Merlin attributed that to the shock and reaction of the fall. Aside from the scrape on his cheekbone, there weren't any other lumps to indicate a worrisome head injury. He suspected a cracked bone in Mordred's upper right arm, though, from the swelling and sensitivity, though there didn't seem to be any misalignment of pieces.

Slipping around his gelding's head, he checked the straps tied to keep Mordred's feet in the stirrups so he wouldn't tumble from the saddle again. Even with his arm bound to his chest and supported with the sling around his neck, he was only half-aware of the need to remain upright and mounted. Semi-conscious, most of the day, and now slumped over his good elbow propped on the pommel of the saddle.

"Hey," Merlin said, as he'd done periodically through the day. The boy gazed at him dully and didn't respond. "How are you doing? In a lot of pain? You want some water, or something to eat?"

Without moving or even opening his mouth, Mordred made a noise of discomfort and entreaty, which Merlin interpreted to mean, _I want to get down_.

"I know," he tried to reassure the boy. "But we've got to keep moving for now. We've got to get to someone who can help you. We don't have the supplies to stop til you heal on your own, and I… I can't…"

Healing magic had not been a priority for the education of the prince of Caerleon. Merlin resolved to turn his attention to the topic of study as soon as he was home again – he was sure Gaius could give him some direction.

He patted Mordred's back encouragingly, adjusting the blanket that replaced the druid cloak in keeping the boy warm after the accident and now as the horizon pulled the sun down, dim and chill and somehow further away than it seemed when it was overhead.

Behind Mordred on his gelding, Arthur slouched low over the mane of his own gray mount, his body limp and his eyes closed. It had been only an hour or so since Merlin had thought it advisable to tie the other prince in place, given the rough territory and Arthur's vague awareness of his place in it.

Merlin touched him, cupping his forehead and pressing a hand to Arthur's chest – sighing worriedly at what he found. Arthur leaned into the contact rather than pulling away, and the uncharacteristic behavior spoke to the depth of his delirium.

"Dammit! Dammit- Merlin!"

He'd whirled at the shout earlier in the day to find Mordred slipping out of Arthur's grip; initially they'd ridden together on Arthur's mount with Merlin on his own gelding. He'd caught the boy with magic, leaping down from his gelding to catch him again in his arms.

And Arthur had been panting and sweating. "Hells. Merlin, I'm sorry. I closed my eyes for a minute – the glare of the sun – and then I couldn't hold him. Heavy… pulling at my shoulder…"

Merlin had lowered Mordred to the ground, but when Arthur made to dismount so terribly clumsily, he'd reached to hold the other prince in place, startled and dismayed to feel how feverishly warm he was, how he flinched back from Merlin's hand on his shoulder.

 _Dammit is right. I should have insisted he let us have a look at that shoulder, let us clean and rebandage it… But when? two days ago? in the courtyard while the Saxons watched and noted our weaknesses? this morning, when tensions were high and time was precious, sneaking out with the Diamair?_ Perhaps when they'd stopped to break their night's fast and bid the Diamair farewell – but then Arthur had been in a mood because of her words, disinclined to exchange comments, much less any more physical care.

"No," he told Arthur. "Stay where you are. If you come down from that saddle, I'm not sure I can get you back up."

Catching something – or someone – in midair was one thing, slowing a fall til motion was almost undetectable. Moving objects was one thing. Heavy objects – much less a living breathing vulnerable person, was something else entirely.

Arthur had simply stared at him, and didn't sarcastically accuse Merlin of insulting his weight. And didn't tease Merlin about his lack of muscular strength.

Now he wasn't even doing that.

Merlin knew spells, of course he did, but he wasn't about to experiment on a person. Not all the way out here and alone, not without their permission, and not when it wasn't life or death urgency. Yet.

"Arthur?" he tried. "Hey. Arthur?"

Muscles shifted under his hand. Arthur's face twisted, as if he was trying – but he didn't open his eyes.

"Should we try to keep moving?" he said aloud. "If we stop, you and Mordred will rest easier. I can get you to eat something, drink something. The horses can rest. But… I can't leave the two of you in camp and continue alone – what if it's days and days. It'll take me hours and hours to get you up a-horseback in the morning, and no nearer help than when we stopped… But, night in the mountains – is it worth the risk to try?"

For a moment he rested his forehead on Arthur's knee. And called again.

 _Hello? Please, I need help!_

 __Was the owner of the voice punishing him for his choice to listen to Mordred and turn back two days ago? What was he to do if he was wrong about the proximity of a dragon, or the ability of the 'lord to help?

There was always the _Astyre-us thaneonward_ , as a last resort. He could not watch either Arthur or Mordred die, then return their lifeless body to their people. If it came to it he'd try the spell to return all of them to a place of safety; he'd rather perish with Arthur, trying to save his life.

"All right," he told Arthur's knee. "We'll keep going as long as I can, and we'll find a place to stop tonight. And tomorrow… I'll figure out tomorrow."

…..*….. …..*….. …..*….. …..*….. …..*…

Mordred woke to find himself lying down, and still. He was warm and not particularly uncomfortable, and above him orange light flickered dimly over rock and earth. He felt heavy and thick-headed and slow, and when he raised a hand to rub his eyes, his fingers encountered something on his cheek that interrupted the smooth of his skin.

Experimentally he scratched to get it off – was it mud? it felt like a spot of spattered mud – and it stung. A scab. A cut, or a scrape.

He remembered what happened. He remembered beginning to slide over the hillside, down the ravine. He remembered being propped a-horseback with Arthur, and tipping off that saddle, too.

Something caught his attention and he turned his head, recognizing his surroundings for a small crack in the mountainside, hollowed out by weather and roofed with weed-roots and captured dust. The different darkness of the night sky was partially obscured by the shapes of the horses, nosing into their feed bags, in the absence of natural forage. There was a small fire above his head, tucked carefully into the back of the cave.

Arthur slouched shirtless against the opposite wall, a few paces away. Merlin sat cross-legged between them with his back to Mordred; he had Arthur's hand tucked awkwardly under his elbow.

"…Sorry if I'm hurting you." Merlin's murmur echoed back to Mordred in the stillness and shape of the cave.

Arthur grimaced his answer; if he added anything verbally, Mordred didn't hear it.

"…Should have said something… this is a mess…"

Arthur lifted his free hand to rub his forehead tiredly. Mordred wondered how much of the night had passed. Merlin reached to the side, picking up something or laying something down, then began to make rhythmic movements that Mordred's mind interpreted as bandaging. Then Arthur's gaze shifted and connected to Mordred's – he saw his name form on the Pendragon's lips.

Merlin looked over his shoulder at Mordred.

Between blinks, or so it seemed, Merlin was bending over Mordred, a cup in his hand. "Hey. How are you feeling? You want something to drink?"

He did. It might cool him down – he hated the fire, and the blanket - and he was terribly thirsty all of a sudden.

But he couldn't sit up. His muscles worked, tightened, but pain shot through him and panic followed in its wake. He couldn't move – he couldn't sit up – he was helpless. They'd be angry and leave him, and he couldn't move… His eyes blurred with tears.

"I can't!" he gasped, and his chest burned with words he couldn't say. _Emrys! Help me, please!_

 _Mordred._ He heard, to the core of his being. _Calm down. I'm here. I'll take care of you, don't worry._

He blinked away tears; Merlin bent over him, curling fingers around the back of Mordred's neck, lifting him as easily as a baby, and he didn't need to engage his muscles or cooperate with the movement at all, til he was upright and gravity tugged at him differently, puling at the blood in his bruises.

"Drink this now," Merlin coaxed.

Mordred reached with his off hand. It was stew-broth, thick and rich and tangy.

"I think you've cracked a bone in your arm," Merlin told him, with a weary quirk of a smile. "That won't be fatal. But it's still serious, while we're out here alone. Do you know any healing spells? I could try?"

Mordred searched foggy memories, and shook his head slowly. "I wasn't… taught any of that."

Merlin made a face. "Me neither. Should probably rectify that, when we get home."

 _When we. Get home_. Mordred swallowed the rest of the broth, feeling the ache in his chest tighten, drawing more tears from his eyes. How long had it been since he'd had a home? Among the druids it wasn't your campsite or the material you were using as a tent, it was the people you belonged with. The bandits had never been his home; he hadn't even thought on the concept for so long…

Could he trust either prince to offer him that? Or would he just be disappointed again when the image proved false?

"Here," Merlin said, scooting closer and passing his arms around Mordred. "Lie back down again. In the morning it will be difficult and painful, but for now – just rest."

That he could do. Let go and allow Merlin to ease him back down more gently than he could have wished, with some cushioning material under his head and more bolstering his right arm along his side. And if he lay very still, there was no pain at all…

He fell asleep listening to the sounds of Merlin moving quietly around the little cave.

…..*….. …..*….. …..*….. …..*….. …..*…..

Balinor had been watching the little party since shortly after dawn. Two horses and three men, he had assumed, though distanced affected guesswork. Coming from the west, and oddly enough – because there wasn't any route through here or near here from one place to another – heading steadily for the mountain Kilgarrah had chosen, and where Balinor had begun to make a second cave-home.

Kilgarrah wasn't around, though. He'd been in a mood since yesterday, and had flown away, not even returning for the night. Not currently responding to any of Balinor's calls either – though he wouldn't even think of issuing a _summons_ unless it was life or death.

Sulky old lizard.

Sometimes the laboring little party disappeared for the better part of an hour, wending their way higher and closer, and Balinor found curiosity piqued along with irritation. It had been decades since he'd given up the company of men – partly in penance, partly in self-preservation, and now it seemed likelier every hour that he'd be forced to experience at least minimal interaction with these men.

Who were they and what did they want? Had rumors about Kilgarrah begun to spread? There weren't enough of them for a _hunting_ party, at least.

It was midday, and Balinor carving strips of dried meat with his belt-knife to chew on, when they reached the path that led upwards to his cave – and to Kilgarrah's higher eyrie. And unless they were complete idiots, they would notice the signs of Balinor's use of that path.

He stood, shoving the knife back into his belt and began to stride downward along the path. He'd head them off, see what they wanted, turn them away…

The two who were riding weren't straight in their saddles, weren't looking around them with any measure of alertness; none of them were conversing with the others. Balinor watched them round the last curve below him, able now to hear the huff of the horses, the ring of hoof on rock, and positioned himself astride the path, waiting for them to reach and notice him – and now they were close enough to identify details.

The foremost rider was no more than a boy, and his right arm was strapped to his chest. Both riders' legs had been tied to their saddle-leather to keep them from falling, and both bounced and swayed inattentively. The man on foot held the reins of the foremost horse, and there was a rope connecting the two horses together, long enough to allow the second to pick footing through the mountain passes, but short enough not to become hazardously tangled. The man in the lead wore a shirt of Caerleon indigo under a ring-studded breastplate, and the hilt of a sword angled over his shoulder.

Balinor snorted to himself. A barbarian.

It brought a grim smile to his face when the barbarian looked up from his arduous climb and visibly startled to see Balinor standing above him on the trail. His hair was black and shaggy, an unshaven scruff covered his jaw, and he shaded his eyes with his hand. Balinor's shadow stretched down over him but not fully; the sun must be right behind him to the stranger's perception.

"Oh," he said – close enough for Balinor to hear him without having to shout out. "We've found you, then. I'm glad."

"I'm not," Balinor said shortly. "What do you want?"

For the space of one breath and a pair of heartbeats, the young man simply stared up at him. Then he tossed an arm backwards at his mounted companions – both blinking blearily and half-aware up at Balinor. "My friends are injured. We could use some help."

Balinor grunted derisively. "Of course you could. What do I get out of it? A knife in the ribs in the dead of night so you can rob me."

No danger of that really, not with the magic he had at his command, but they wouldn't know that. The barbarian took another moment to gaze at him inscrutably. It made Balinor uncomfortable.

Then the stranger said, "You can trust me as your own flesh and blood. _Ic I gehalse_."

Balinor rocked back on his heels, his eyebrows shooting up his forehead. "You have magic." Not totally unheard of among the people of Caerleon, but not common either; their young men traditionally valued feats of physical strength and skill and violence over those of magic.

"I do."

And he was watching Balinor with an odd sort of evaluation and _hope_ , which was something that made him itch between his shoulder-blades. A dangerous, deceptive thing, hope. It would be disappointed eventually, and Balinor just _knew_ the fates would twist it so that _he_ was responsible, curse them.

"That's not good enough," he sneered. "I haven't any flesh and blood of my own left to trust."

"And if you did?" the boy persisted evenly.

It had been so very long since Balinor had thought of his father. Had allowed himself to remember. His father had been a quiet man, both in stern instruction and in rare humor. He had borne with quiet nobility the respect of the few dragons Balinor had met in his youth – not Kilgarrah, not til that day at Uther's citadel, when Uther's lies had broken Balinor's heart and the ability to trust. He had borne the quicksilver nature of his younger brother, Balinor's uncle, loyalty and jealousy both hot and fast and full, at different times. He had borne Balinor's antics with his cousins, far back in boyhood. He had loved Balinor's mother, also quiet and serene; the fire had been in her eyes and her choice of words – one comment was enough to bring Balinor to task faster than a thorough scolding from anyone else…

All gone, all of them. Uther had not understood dragonlord magic any better than he understood any sort of magic, and the slaughter had been complete. Balinor's father in the fighting. The rest, evidently, even as he negotiated for Kilgarrah to be spared for captivity.

For a moment, staring down at the barbarian warrior of Caerleon, Balinor saw both his cousins as they might have been, if they'd reached twenty years. And then it was just the stranger, haggard and watchful under his tangle of black hair and what might have been his first scruff of beard.

Balinor turned on the path and began to stalk upward, back to his cave.

"Please," the barbarian called after him, pleading with the difficult word, and not his tone. Balinor heard the clop of hooves and knew that the stranger was dragging his strange cavalcade behind him; the horses seemed nearly as worn from hard travel as the men. "I've tried to help them but they need medicine and that's beyond my skill. If you're the dragonlord, your education-"

"My education," Balinor grunted, but it was as if the stranger never heard him.

"-Should have included that, and healing magic. Which I could try if you'd at least tell me which spells… But we're a long way from anyone else who could help and I doubt I could get my friends back to that without resorting to something like the _Astyre-us thaneonward_ -"

Balinor spun, the tails of his long coat flaring with the movement, and the stranger startled on the steep path, putting one hand down for balance before he straightened. "You'd risk that?" he demanded. "Chancy magic at best, and you could be killed or worse if you made one mistake."

"I know." The young man held his gaze. Balinor realized his eyes were a deep and exhausted blue. Not that it mattered.

"Why not just leave them?" Balinor suggested, half-taunting, half-curious. "There are Saxons at Ismere, and that is not far. They might stab you in the back and rob you, but if you sold them your companions, they'd be cared for as valuable merchandise, and you're free to return to your own depredations. Raiding, stealing, killing…"

Something ignited in those eyes, and Balinor found – while he didn't fear the barbarian at all; too young for serious threat – he could respect the temper, and its check. Until the stranger spoke.

"Is that what you did, then. Sold your companions to Uther Pendragon, in return for your own freedom."

Balinor briefly considered seizing the young man by the corners of his breastplate and throwing him off the side of the mountain. He did take two steps down and stab his forefinger into the stranger's breastbone, emphatic enough to feel through the hard leather. "Do you want my help, boy, or not."

The rider in the rear said one word, maybe the name of the warrior. "Merlin."

"I am _handling_ this," the young man snapped back, without taking his eyes from Balinor's. The breath drawn and exhaled was shuddery and uneven, though his jaw remained set. "Yes. Please. I apologize for the offense."

"Yeah. Well. Rude is what you barbarians do best, isn't it." Balinor spun again and stalked away, letting the pace burn out some of his own irritation and pain. Let the strangers follow as best they could.

Rude and stubborn as well. His voice followed Balinor, breathless and struggling in the climb that taxed the horses he was persuading to follow him. "You are Balinor, then? Where is the dragon? I heard you freed him from beneath the citadel of Camelot, and you were seen flying away together."

"You heard, huh?" Balinor tossed over his shoulder. Because the men of Camelot and the men of Caerleon didn't exactly gossip over ale in a tavern at the end of a day. News of Denaria and Fyrien had reached him, even in Merendra. "Who told you that?"

"A man in Camelot."

Balinor repeated, "A man in Camelot? You just happened to be riding peacefully through?"

The boy affected to ignore him. "The boy fell off the path – I think he's cracked the bone in his upper arm. But he didn't sleep well and he's not interested in eating or drinking enough, so he's gotten weak and light-headed. My other friend – well, he fell too, he was knocked off his horse. His shoulder was cut up a bit, and he's developed an infection. There's swelling, and fever…"

Balinor glanced back as he approached the level of his cave. There was something of a forecourt or lawn, tilted and rocky and open to the sky, before the hollowing of the mountainside that might accommodate two or three of them if they were still and quiet, but would grow quickly uncomfortable once everyone was upright and moving about.

"Leave the horses there," he told the young man below him. "The path is steep and there's no room for them. Bring your friends just up here."

He stomped on, into his little home, focused on retrieving the items he'd need to treat the warrior's two companions. He didn't live in a forest anymore, surrounded by plants and roots and leaves of medicinal quality, but old habits died hard and he didn't have much else to occupy his days anyway. Carving and carpentry and selling those bits and pieces for things he couldn't scavenge from the woods and countryside, when Kilgarrah could be persuaded to carry him within a day's walk of a town or village.

A dish and a stir-twig for mixture, strips of bandaging, cups for water from the rain-reservoir he'd built. Comfrey and boneset and calendula and see if the old spells still worked. It was different than using magic on one's own self…

He could hear the stranger's voice occasionally, speaking to his companions or soothing their horses or even just complaining out loud, and he'd forgotten how loud and annoying other people could be. He bristled as the barbarian scuffed into the cave, panting under the weight of the suffering boy, filling the space with noise that didn't originate with Balinor.

"Where do you want him?"

"On the pallet," Balinor said tersely. "And get your other friend up here quickly. I want you gone as soon as you can travel."

The barbarian straightened from easing the boy to a sitting position, and Balinor could tell he was looking at him again. He refused to meet his eyes, shouldering past him to kneel by the boy. The barbarian – Merlin, he supposed was his name, though if they didn't bother to introduce themselves properly, he wasn't going to worry about niceties and names – departed the cave again more quietly, and without saying a word.

Balinor lit and positioned the oil-lamp next to them, and the boy roused to watch him untie the bindings on his arm. Remnants of someone's shirt, and not one in rags anyway. It was well-made from superior cloth, and Balinor wasn't too reclusive to lament the loss of a quality garment. Or to wonder.

"I don't remember my father," the boy said, his voice hoarse from his neglect of water and from not speaking.

"I'm sorry for that," Balinor told him without trying to follow his trail of thought, trying to be both gentle and swift in his work. "Mine was a good man."

"Really?" The boy forgot his question, wincing and pinching a moan behind pressed lips as the binding came away and Balinor lowered the arm to his lap. Even that small movement was enough to tell him the black-haired warrior's assessment of the cracked bone was correct. But the shirt the boy was wearing had shifted, revealing a tattooed symbol on the pale skin of his chest.

"You're a druid?" Balinor said to him, partly to distract him. "Did your clan travel in Caerleon?"

The boy made a noise that wasn't clearly _yes_ or _no_.

"What's your name?" Balinor added.

"Mordred…"

Balinor timed the spell for the moment he answered, and the boy gasped, stiffening in reaction as the bone began to knit, drawing substance from the boy's own body and energy from Balinor. He had it to spare, most days.

"There, Mordred," he said, satisfied and soothing. "It'll be sore, and take a while to regain strength, but that's better than it was?"

The boy tested it gingerly, eyes wide and expression carefully blank. Wary of Balinor, now that his focus wasn't his pain.

"How did a druid come to share company with barbarian warriors?" Balinor asked, handing him a dosed cup of water – for pain relief, and for bone health. "You're not a slave, are you? He's not using you for your magic?"

The boy didn't respond, which was in itself an answer. His attitude was more than just careful reticence with a stranger, there was fear and mistrust there, deep-seated and long-held, based on terrible personal experience.

"Is that the first thing you assume about everyone you meet?"

Balinor twisted at the sound of the barbarian's voice. He had a sword tucked under his pallet but in the moment magic would be faster and more subtle, if it was needed. He hadn't heard the warrior return, but both young men stood in the high, wide mouth of the cave.

The injured one had blond hair, bruising on his face, white shirt under a hide vest that wasn't really proper armor – but the sword at his hip _was_ a proper sword. As he leaned against the rock of the wall, it appeared as if the barbarian's hand on his chest held him upright and in place. His own hand wrapped the brace trapping the indigo sleeve, as if he had gripped his companion's forearm to thrust the support away, and found himself clinging instead.

"You think any man whose path you cross is capable of that sort of betrayal?" the stranger in indigo asked, and there was an odd edge to the curiosity in his voice.

Balinor sneered. "Any man is capable of that sort of betrayal," he informed the younger man. Naivete in a barbarian was unexpected. "Knowing that means I'm spared the disappointment."

"So words like _hope_ and _trust_ and _friendship_ ," the barbarian Merlin challenged, lifting his chin. "Don't they mean anything to you?"

"Why the hell would it matter to you?" Balinor snapped, irritated that he'd allowed himself to be baited. This was why he avoided people.

The younger man huffed sardonically. "I guess it wouldn't."

"Merlin…" his companion murmured, and instantly gained the barbarian's full attention, as his legs gave out. The black-haired warrior helped his friend slide to the floor, slowly and carefully.

"Mordred will need to carry that arm in a sling for a few weeks," Balinor said, straightening from his crouch beside the pallet to come to the mouth of the cave. "And if I'm busy with them this afternoon, the least you can do is prepare some dinner, and tend the fire for the night."

Merlin glanced about. There was a firepit outside the cave but no firewood; Balinor had spent the morning watching these three travel rather than scavenging dead wood and fresh greens from the narrow valley. He didn't offer supplies either; he'd be damned if he'd feed the interlopers also. Least they could do was offer him a meal in trade for his help.

Balinor knelt beside the wounded warrior, whose feverishly glassy gaze followed him. His friend Merlin unlaced his shirt, pushing it down off his shoulder to expose the bandage. Balinor cupped the young man's forehead in his palm to gauge his fever – and it was high.

"Drink this," Balinor said, stretching for the second cup of water, infused with yarrow for the fever. "I'll put a poultice on the wound and then-"

"Balinor," the blond warrior managed. Less than fully conscious. "My name is-"

" _Swefe nu_ ," the barbarian blurted with a gesture, catching his friend's head as it lolled in immediate sleep and easing it back between the rock and his uninjured shoulder.

Balinor quirked a suspicious eyebrow at Merlin.

"He talks too much," Merlin said defensively. Evasively.

Balinor repeated sarcastically, " _He_ talks too much? Or is it just that you don't want him to say the wrong thing where the wrong person can hear? Are you hiding something?"

"Because you're perfectly trustworthy?" the barbarian countered, moving back.

Balinor snorted, beginning to unwind the bandage. The lowest layers were crusted, stained and moist with yellowish fluid that had leaked from the tears in the skin, edged with red and beginning to show faint streaks down his shoulder in the direction of his heart. Too bad he didn't have honey, but the comfrey and calendula should be enough, in addition to the healing magic that didn't really cost him anything.

Merlin watched him a moment, hovering just out of Balinor's sight. Well, as long as he wasn't blocking the light… Balinor ignored when the barbarian retreated back down the path – to their horses or supplies, or looking for firewood, he didn't care.

"It's not a coincidence that you know my name, is it?" Balinor asked casually over his shoulder to the druid boy seated on his pallet. "What are you three doing this far north, anyway?"

The boy watched, and said nothing. From loyalty, or self-preservation? Balinor cleaned the wound on the blond warrior's shoulder and spread the comfrey paste over the swollen flesh. Positioning his hand, he breathed out the healing spell.

" _Ahluttre tha seocnes… Thurh-haele braed_."

"So you do have magic." Again the barbarian lingered behind him and he didn't notice, even though the young man was weighted down with rolled blankets and two supply-bags.

"Dammit," Balinor growled at him, "you sneak up on me one more time, I will _curse_ you."

The young man's expression didn't change. "Does magic always accompany the dragonlord heritage?"

"Why the hell should I answer that?" Balinor demanded. Supposing that the blond warrior wouldn't be uncomfortable in his temporary magical rest, he reared up and faced the other, hands on his hips. "Who is this man who told you about me? My name, and the dragon, and Uther-bloody-Pendragon? Just what is it you think you know, and why have you come here?"

"I was in Camelot this spring-"

"Raiding," Balinor enunciated sarcastically.

The young man's mouth compressed unhappily. "Yes. But I was captured and taken to the citadel. There I met-"

Balinor said one word that indicated his disbelief. "Impossible. Captured raiding, and with magic? Why didn't Uther execute you on the spot?"

"He couldn't afford to." The boy lifted his chin. "I'm the prince of Caerleon."

 _Sure you are_ , Balinor snorted.

"Uther was taken ill, and his son negotiated my release."

"Prince Arthur," Balinor scoffed. "The heir of promise and magic, greatly anticipated by all of Albion – the harbinger of death and destruction."

"That wasn't his fault!" the warrior – prince or not - snapped. "Now honestly I'm not sure I care anymore whether you believe me, but I was trying to answer your question about who I talked to about you."

He exhaled through his nostrils several times, waiting for Balinor to interrupt him again; his gaze was uncomfortably evaluating. He didn't put down his bundles but only stood there with disapproval and disappointment fairly radiating from him. Balinor resented that deeply – strangers had no right to form expectations of him, and he would not apologize for making no attempt to satisfy them.

"Gaius told me."

Balinor exclaimed explosively, "Gaius! Yet another betrayal. He swore he'd keep my survival secret, swore he'd tell no one where I was…"

For a moment the younger man studied him, and something shifted in his eyes. "I know what Uther did to you, to your kin, and to the dragons."

"You couldn't possibly!" Balinor spat. "You weren't even born then."

"But not every man is Uther Pendragon," Merlin continued, with a sideways glance down at his unconscious friend sat propped in the mouth of the cave. "Can you not think of anyone who had a right to Gaius' knowledge of you?"

Balinor opened his mouth to deny, and checked himself. Didn't he?

"What about Hunith?" the barbarian said.

And Balinor might have thrown him off the mountain for daring to utter that name, if he wasn't frozen in place with shock and reaction, a cascade of pure longing flooding over him and making it hard to breathe. He floundered for even footing through regret and loss, the latest such in a crisis of betrayal, the most poignant, the brightest and most painful memory.

"Hunith of Ealdor," the warrior added. As if Balinor could ever forget.

"What is Hunith to you?" he rasped. And why – _why_ would Gaius have said her name to some young upstart prince of Caerleon, magic or not?

"She is my mother." The young man was breathing swiftly, poised as though he might have to flee. "The king and queen of Caerleon came to Ealdor when I was small, and decided they would adopt me for their throne. For my magic, and for other reasons."

"And Hunith?" Balinor said; he couldn't help it. "She married then? They – stayed in Ealdor? I know it was razed by bandits…"

"She came with me to Caerleon. She's there now, she's fine – she's friends with Queen Annis." Merlin watched him another strangely significant moment, then opened his mouth to say huskily, "She never married."

That wasn't true. Balinor believed that Hunith – sweet, shy, steadfast, strong Hunith, and she was _alive_! – had considered their private vows as binding as any they could've said anywhere, to anyone else. She'd married _him_ , all those years ago, and he'd betrayed her trust and her love…

"Gaius told her, and me, about you, because…" Merlin had to breathe to steady his voice. "I am your son."

Balinor felt like he was the one tipping off the mountain. "It can't be," he said, dragging the words roughly from his throat. "It can't be. We never – she wasn't-"

"Before you left. She didn't know yet either."

The moment trembled around him, lingered as he absorbed the young warrior like sand upon which water is being poured. Those blue eyes – _her_ eyes. The rest was his lost family – unruly black hair, lanky build, the bones of his face and hands.

Gods and goddesses. Was it possible? It was possible. Was it true?

It was _true_.

He had absolutely no idea what to say. "I'm sorry. That I didn't know – that I wasn't there. I would've wanted to be there…"

"That is good to know."

Merlin looked at him, and for the first time Balinor was self-conscious about what _he_ must look like, to the boy. What he acted like, what he sounded like. Bloody hells, just when he thought he was done betraying his kin…

"So Gaius is…" he began awkwardly.

Merlin hadn't moved to put the blankets and travel-packs down. Possibly he felt just as uncertain, what to do or what to say. "Fine."

"Still Camelot's physician?"

"Yep."

"And your mother is-"

"Fine, also. I don't think she's changed much, even living in Caerleon's castle."

She deserved it, that was certain. "And you've been raised a prince." Balinor's chuckle scraped at the inside of his chest like breathing sand. "That wouldn't have happened if I'd been there."

Merlin shrugged, though the expression in his eyes was anything but indifferent. "It wasn't terrible. I met interesting people. Learned interesting things."

"I'll bet you have." Balinor studied him again, almost ravenously, noting details differently for his _son_ than for a barbarian trespasser. The scab at the bridge of his nose and the bruising round his eye said _fighter_. The way he carried his sword – the way he moved – the exhaustion and evident concern for his companions – the mention of magic… Balinor ached with pride and regret, but only for a moment, til other things intruded on the memory. "You were raiding in Camelot and they _captured_ you? What were you _thinking_ going there?"

Black brows pulled a wrinkle between them, and the boy turned away to place their things down on the ground in a neat pile. "I was under orders. Leading my first foray. We were ambushed, and I surrendered to Prince Arthur so my men would be spared-"

"You surrendered to Arthur Pendragon!" Balinor exclaimed, terror clawing at his heart retrospectively. To think his son might have been killed – tortured, executed, burnt or beheaded – and he'd have known nothing about it. "Dammit, boy, did they beat the sense right out of you in Caerleon?"

Merlin's jaw tightened, and hells, was he truly a barbarian? Didn't he know any better? What would that mean for the day he inherited Balinor's responsibility and commanded a dragon?

And speaking of dragons-

 _Kilgarrah!_ he sent fiercely, straight to the irascible old dragon. _If I have to command you here, I will! We are going to have words!_

 **A/N:** _ **Ic I gehalse**_ **. Basically, Merlin taking an oath in the language of magic that he cannot violate.** _ **I bind myself by swearing**_ **. Balinor's healing spell – as well as some dialogue, paraphrased or not - comes from ep.2.13 "The Last Dragonlord".**

 **Next chapter, Kilgarrah adds to the complication of this meeting!**


	12. The Second Quest

**Chapter 12: The Second Quest**

 _"You surrendered to Arthur Pendragon!" Balinor exclaimed. "Dammit, boy, did they beat the sense right out of you in Caerleon?"_

Merlin was exhausted, trembling with fatigue and headachy from worry, and he knew that Balinor had not been living a pleasant, idyllic life for the last twenty years, he _knew_ that, but he'd let his emotions influence his assumptions after he and Gwaine had discovered the cave in Merendra. He'd hoped… he hoped for someone he could _recognize_ as kin. Someone like Alator, or Gaius maybe.

He didn't expect Balinor to trust and welcome them, really, that wasn't logical, but the dragonlord was worse than the Saxons. Worse than Thurston, who hadn't listened to Merlin's protests about that raid – but who had subsequently accepted and respected his actions and decisions and the good that had come out of it.

Balinor was his father in name only. What made him think he had the right to question Merlin's choices – or his intelligence?

"Barbarians aren't all stupid," he said icily, "any more than sorcerers are all evil."

The dragonlord barely heard him, distracted and searching the skies above them. That, and the subtle rhythm of wind on wind, was scant warning, and Merlin moved swiftly and instinctively to put his back to the mountainside as the gigantic shape of the dragon crashed down on the slope below them and beyond the approach of the path.

Merlin spared a brief thought for the panic of his gelding and Arthur's gray, and the feeling that overwhelmed him was fascination. He'd felt that before, the draw of creatures of magic, inhuman and alien sentience, the awed curiosity; he took several steps closer to the bronzed dragon, letting his hand drop away from the hilt behind his shoulder. The great beast shredded rock with his talons as he settled, closing his wings and watching Merlin. Those vast golden eyes could miss nothing.

"Kilgarrah," Balinor growled, ignoring Merlin to advance on the dragon, though he'd barely reach the height of the creature's knee. "You knew, didn't you? How dare you keep this from me? You said, _your destiny will come to you_. You wouldn't tell me if Hunith still lived – you said she didn't matter anymore, and you said that because you knew she'd borne me a son two decades ago!"

The dragon was magnificent. He was terrifying – and maybe not just for his size and strength and innate menace. He was like the Diamair, Merlin suspected. Inhuman and extra-magical abilities. Knowledge, and the use of it for _personal_ reasons.

 _Wariness_ , he thought. _And respect. And let trust be earned_.

"Was I incorrect?" Kilgarrah said, his voice somehow lacking the depth Merlin expected, though it rasped with age. He didn't take his eyes from Merlin to meet the frustration of his dragonlord, however. "Your gift was given to you for a reason," he added, addressing Merlin; he felt a frisson of surreality wave through him at the abrupt assumption of the experience. "How small you are, for such a great destiny."

And hells, was he _done_ with being underestimated and met with disappointment.

"With all due respect," Merlin said evenly, "I do _not_ wish to hear what you think my destiny is."

"How surprising," the dragon countered with a sarcasm that matched his size. "You were so willing to listen to me two days ago. But allowances must be made for your upbringing, I suppose."

And Merlin was thoroughly inclined to exaggerate the expected Caerleon barbarism, as he had done and still did on occasion, with Arthur, regardless of what he'd just said to Balinor about _all_ barbarians.

"Wait – that was him," Balinor interjected before Merlin could say anything nasty. "You said – a shift in destiny. A choice that changes. You said…" He paused as if to recall exact words spoken. "He walks the razor's edge of ruin and destruction and doom, offering trust and aid to an enemy…"

Merlin filled his lungs deliberately, in preparation.

Arthur had insisted on accompanying him into the mountains to search for his father. He seemed to have forgotten that Balinor the dragonlord was his own father's enemy, and surely would not consider him a welcome guest in any case. But Merlin had hesitated to remind him, after the Diamair's statement about Arthur's tendency to trust. He should have remembered that the dragon would consider Uther's son an enemy, too. And now it seemed that neglect of introductions and a sleeping spell weren't enough to disguise Arthur's identity.

Balinor's back was to him. Though the dragon was watching, Merlin slipped sideways to place himself between the creature and Arthur's body, slumped to one side of the cave opening. Whatever the reaction might be-

The dragonlord turned on him, recognizing his defensive stance in an instant and realizing the reason for it. "And you said, Arthur Pendragon negotiated your release. And you wouldn't let him-" one forefinger stabbed downward, pointing behind Merlin- "tell me his name. It's him, isn't it? Uther's whelp, the reason the tyrant waged war on magic for years."

"He's not an enemy," Merlin declared resolutely, ready for any attack either of them might launch, physically or magically. "He's not his father, he's fair and open-minded-"

Balinor interrupted with a raw bark of laughter – an attack of a sort that Merlin was not ready for, and that cut into him. "Ha! Was this part of your negotiation? You're obligated to him? He found out your connections, through Gaius maybe – what did he tell you? He wanted a chance to make peace with the dragons? Help him hunt down the last one so he can negotiate an alliance?"

Merlin opened his mouth to offer a retort, even though he could clearly see that the man would not be persuaded, not in this mood.

But the dragon beat him to it. "Hold your peace, Balinor. Arthur was not the enemy of whom I spoke."

"What do you mean?" Merlin straightened, confused out of wariness. Balinor dropped his chin and paced away several steps, obviously also confused, thinking, but upset enough to need to move while he was doing it.

"That one," Kilgarrah said, his gravelly voice deceptively mild. "The druid boy."

He lowered his head and shoulders like he was preparing to pounce, and Merlin followed his line of sight to see that Mordred, right arm in the sling made out of Merlin's extra shirt, had crept out to the line of daylight slanting across the cave's opening. He looked like he might be clinging to the stone for support, eyes wide - but then, it wasn't every day that you saw your first dragon, he supposed.

"What about Mordred?" Merlin asked.

At the same time Balinor demanded incredulously, "This _boy_ is the enemy?"

Mordred turned his frightened gaze on Merlin. _Emrys – I'm not anyone's enemy_.

Merlin was already saying it aloud – "He's not anyone's enemy."

"He will be." Kilgarrah shifted in his crouch, and included Merlin in the intensity of his gaze. "You should not help him. If that boy lives, you cannot fulfill your destiny."

Mordred made a sound of involuntary pain, and Merlin was immediately and thoroughly mad.

"What the hell kind of sense does that make?" he snapped. "I have fulfilled my destiny. Up to this point in time. We all have. And no one can be certain what the future holds, or how it will unfold."

The Diamair might know. Merlin ignored the thought; he'd trust her to tell the truth if he were so foolish as to ask, but he was trusting the dragon less and less. In itself a tragedy, he supposed, but at the moment he didn't care.

"Without you, Arthur will never succeed. Without you, there will be no Albion," Kilgarrah added. "It is that boy's destiny to bring about Arthur's doom."

"You mean this boy will kill Arthur Pendragon?" Balinor said.

Mordred caught his breath in an audible gasp. He was green-pale, and knowing what Merlin knew of the druid boy's personal quest for answers and the price he paid for the unsuccessful attempt, Merlin wished he had a spell strong enough to roll time backward a few seconds and _muzzle_ the great beast.

Bad enough to be told you had a great destiny, to carry that weight of obligation and uncertainty, without any choice in the matter. At least Merlin had been told he could give it a go, being crown prince of Caerleon, and decline the burdensome honor if it didn't suit. No matter that he'd felt his debt to Thurston and Annis for shelter and provision for himself and his mother, he'd accepted the charge and training and responsibility willingly.

How much worse to be told you were fated to kill a man. And not even a meaningless stranger – someone you'd saved, who'd saved you.

Merlin spat a single foul word to question the dragon's veracity. "Why should we believe you?"

"Why should I lie, if he is an innocent nonentity?" Kilgarrah returned.

"I don't know!" Merlin shouted at him, flinging out his arms in exasperation. "I don't know you at all, do I? Maybe you're bored and it amuses you to play with people!"

"Merlin," Balinor said sternly; the tone chafed Merlin and he ignored the older man.

Kilgarrah's neck arched, curling his head down nearer to Merlin. He said, almost gently, "I would not lie to my kin. It brings me no joy to voice the warning; I would be remiss to let you all continue ignorant of the serpent you are taking to your breast."

Merlin's magic fairly sprang out of him with a flick of contempt, and the air rippled into a solid shield bulging outward slightly, covering the three of them from the dragon and his 'lord. If Kilgarrah continued speaking, they wouldn't hear it.

He stalked sideways to Mordred, who shrank away in fear of him, and that made Merlin sick to his stomach. But still too angry to be soothing or comforting, he stuck his finger in Mordred's face. "Don't listen to him," he ordered. "You don't have to believe him-"

"Dragons can see the future," Mordred said tremulously.

"Damn the dragon!" Merlin said, feeling himself trembled with the force of emotion.

A hand descended on his shoulder and he flinched away, halting the movement when he saw it was Arthur. On his feet, his shirt unlaced and skewed sideways to show the bandaging at his shoulder. His eyes were on Mordred, and his expression was… inscrutable. Merlin remembered the way Arthur had looked at him, asking if he had magic, and Merlin had responded with one word, _Yes_ – as if he was waiting to see what form the inevitable attack would take.

"She told you that you'd trust the wrong person," Mordred whispered. "At least now you know – it's me."

"It's inexact," Merlin snapped. "It always is, when you're speaking of the future. It doesn't have to change anything…" Even as he said it, he knew he was wrong. Mordred would be oppressed with the knowledge, with the worry of when and how, and that would change him. He might grow to resent; he might decide there was relief in acceptance…

And Arthur… all ye gods in heaven, was it not enough that Arthur was questioning himself; now he had to question Mordred, too?

Their attention was caught by the bulk of the dragon shifting, outside the glassy transparency of Merlin's shield; he leaped up, unfurling wings like dark-bronze sails, and flapping soundlessly away, up into the sky in a sinuous motion. Balinor turned to face them, and Merlin realized that he'd blocked the man from his own home, opened to them in hospitality, even if grudgingly.

"You might as well take this down," Arthur said wearily, dropping his hand away from Merlin's shoulder. "We can't unhear it."

Merlin dismissed the shield, stalking toward the dragonlord, whose bearded face showed a sympathy Merlin didn't want. He stopped facing the man, and uttered, "I wish we'd never come."

A painful flash of regret twisted the older man's face only briefly. "I hope you'll stay, regardless. At least the night. Your – companions need to rest and regain their strength."

Arthur passed into Merlin's vision behind Balinor, heading for the trail leading downward, where Merlin had left their horses. His shoulders were slumped beneath the neglected, crookedly-hanging shirt, his head down, his steps slow and betraying unsteadiness.

Merlin looked over his shoulder. Mordred had slumped into a miserable crouch and was staring blankly at the stony ground.

And this man was his father, the embodiment of his hopes and his mother's dreams. And in the event of his death, Merlin would inherit some power or ability linking him to Kilgarrah that he didn't understand. Like it or not. The choice beyond his control.

He clenched his jaw and gave Balinor a single tight nod.

Then he followed Arthur.

…..*….. …..*….. …..*….. …..*….. …..*…..

Mordred was shivering as he blinked up into the bright afternoon sun and the looming dark shape of the dragonlord. The father of Emrys. Shuddering made his arm ache and breathing made his chest ache, and he couldn't stop either one.

He knew this feeling intimately well. It had happened again. _Loss_. The terrible throbbing absence of something irreplaceable gone forever. This time, he realized, it was ignorance. No wonder the druids had rejected him – that had nothing to do with Arthur, and _everything_ to do with Arthur - had reacted to banish him when he became too curious about his destiny.

Balinor squatted before him, ankle-length fur-and-leather coat spreading to make him appear larger than he was. The tangled graying hair and beard made him look a bit like Ragnor. But when he spoke, he sounded a bit like Merlin – earth-deep compassion that didn't depend at all on who Mordred was.

"Are you all right?"

Merlin was Emrys. And Emrys was meant to protect the Once and Future King, which meant of course Arthur. What would he do? No matter his fierce words of denial, he _believed_. Otherwise he might have laughed. Otherwise he would have teased. It would not be merely rejection from him, but active enmity; he must protect Arthur, and Merlin would…

"I don't want to kill Arthur," he blurted.

Balinor rested his forearms on his bent knees and laced his fingers comfortably together. "You don't have to if you don't want to."

Mordred swallowed hard against a lump in his throat. "But you believe I will want to, someday. Somehow."

The man sighed, and under his beard almost smiled. "There was a time when I believed that Uther Pendragon was a friend to my kind. He betrayed me and murdered my kin – and nearly all the dragons. If I hadn't trusted him, if I'd been prepared for what he was capable of, I might have been able to fight him. To defend and save those I loved. Perhaps at this point in time my – my son believes that he has an understanding with Arthur Pendragon. But he's been raised to hate magic, hate and fear it, and once a Pendragon makes up his mind, he doesn't change it. Arthur may have decided to use magic when it suits him – but he'll betray it when it suits him, too."

Mordred closed his eyes and ached a little more. He tried to imagine the eventuality Balinor described, and couldn't. The Once and Future could not turn on his Emrys, not in any final sense, could he?

All Mordred could see was that sword, gleaming. The sword that sang of magic and power, of glory and goodness – made for him and given to him by Merlin. Could Merlin be wrong? But he knew Arthur better than Balinor did – better than Mordred did. He'd known Arthur as an enemy, as the Pendragon's captive.

He remembered that. The utter desolation of the citadel dungeon cell, musty straw and cold stone and shaking, weeping because Cerdan had left him, had died and left him alone and he would die alone – and then Arthur had come. When he was supposed to hate and fear magic, Arthur had come to free Mordred, to risk being caught and punished for freeing Mordred, when there was no gain to himself that Mordred could see. And maybe he was with Arthur now because he felt obligated to deliver him back to the clans, like before, but…

"Uther betrayed my family, too," he said out loud. "He murdered my kin, too."

Balinor spread his hands as if to say, _So you see?_

"But Arthur saved me," Mordred continued. And it had been better with him and Merlin than the bandits, in spite of his awkwardness to associate with such heroes, so very high above him – though they didn't seem to realize that. Every _minute_ had been better.

"Ah, lad." The dragonlord sighed again. "If you want to trust him, I can't help you being betrayed, eventually."

He looked at Mordred and Mordred looked back and wondered, could Merlin ever become like this, like his father? Perhaps if Arthur truly betrayed him… but he _wouldn't_.

"But not tonight," Balinor added. "Come on back to the pallet and rest. We can try that healing spell again too, strengthen that bone in your arm. Come on." He slid his hands under and behind Mordred's arms, like Mordred was a very small child he was picking up, but it let Mordred tense muscles that didn't include his arm as the older man drew him up to his feet.

No. Maybe everything would change again and he'd lose what he thought for a short time he could have, and make of his life – but it didn't mean that he'd been rejected, or that he was alone.

…..*….. …..*….. …..*….. …..*….. …..*…..

Gwaine jostled his nephew awake as they came up over the last rise, and he sat back in his saddle to signal his horse to halt. The sun was just sinking into a ribbony sea of grey clouds at the horizon, wind kicking up raindrops.

Gareth was grumpy and disinclined to rouse. Tired from their journey, he'd been falling asleep in his own saddle after the action and distraction of eating bread and dried meat and fruit for a quick cold dinner. Gwaine transferred the boy to his own saddle to reduce the risk of tumbles, but it was too early in the evening to fall asleep, and he was resisting having to wake after only a few hours.

All sharp shoulder-blades and pointy elbows, this one.

"Hey," he said, unwrapping his cloak from around Gareth and gripping a handful of the boy's shirt and jacket to hold him upright as he shook out the soreness in his arm from holding it bent and supportive of Gareth's weight for two hours. "Gareth. The fortress at Beckon Cove. We're almost there – have you ever seen it before? Your king lives there."

The boy struggled upright, blinking across the stony landscape at the tower, and the wall that meandered around it. He scrunched his body back against Gwaine to rearrange his legs astride the mane of the chestnut mare, rather than reclining sideways across Gwaine's saddlebow.

"How come you say it like that?" he said, somewhat crossly. " _Your_ king? But Merlin is your prince?"

Gwaine pressed his heels and his mount – leading Gareth's – obediently set off again, downwards toward the fortress. They still had a quarter of an hour, maybe – and several hours at least on the witch and her Saxons, so no need to gallop down on Beckon Cove. Myles had been right about the king's obvious strategy; there really was no choice but to remain in the fortress as the best-defensible position.

"Your father is one of Thurston's loyal landholders," Gwaine explained, urging a comfortable jog from the long-suffering mare as they neared the bottom of the hill. "Therefore, you are the king's man. My father was one of the king's men, but when he died I had neither training nor recognition nor title to run Orkan-broch the way it should be. I imagine you've heard your father complain about his tenants before? Well, they listen and mostly obey your father because he's got Ferdrinck, and because they trust him after ten years of leadership, and because he's got the backing of _his_ father's family and all _their_ men, as well as the stated support of the king. Does that make sense?"

Gareth made a noncommittal noise, flapping Gwaine's cloak around for his comfort, without care for the drafts that found Gwaine's ribs and collarbones. He grinned, perfectly content with his nephew's level of proprietary comfort. It wouldn't be two years til Gareth would categorically refuse to ride with Gwaine like this unless he was sick or injured.

"I didn't have that authority and support, and when I went looking for them I was not respectful to the king…" Aside from the insult he'd taken at Thurston's apparent disregard for his father's sacrifice and for the good of Orkan-broch, both. "So I was… banished."

"But then you came back because of Prince Merlin?" Gareth asked.

They were near enough now that the tower felt above them, rather than below or even across the countryside.

"Yep. It's an odd arrangement, but no one's complaining."

"So… if the king gives me an order and you tell me no – who do I listen to?"

Gwaine grinned over the boy's head. _I hereby request tacit permission to disobey…_ "Of course you obey the king. Unless the prince tells you no, I suppose. But don't ever disobey the prince."

Gareth twisted to look at him, almost bumping Gwaine's chin with his head. "What if he's enchanted and doesn't know what he's ordering?"

"Then just obey me," Gwaine said, humoring him.

"What if you're enchanted?"

"There's always the princess. And the queen. And Merlin's mother. Oh, and Tythan, he's a good man."

"In that order?"

He was such good company. Gwaine might have made the trip faster and arrived sooner – and in worse shape. And in a much darker state of mind. "Not necessarily. Just… use your best judgment. No one is going to expect you to carry much responsibility for your choice for some years, yet."

Silence as they jogged along the fortress wall toward the gate. The sun had since disappeared, and all light in the sky was swallowed by the clouds. The braziers on the wall provided necessary and comforting illumination. Gwaine was marked by several warriors – guards, maybe – atop the wall as they rode. Whether he was recognized or simply discounted as a threat wasn't clear – or important.

The gate stood open and one of the attendants, nocking an arrow casually in his bow, as if testing the quality of string or wood, pointed the arrow at Gwaine. At his face, not lower where Gareth might be in danger, so Gwaine relaxed.

"Gwaine, son of Geart," he said. "I need to see the king."

"He's at his dinner," the guard said, unstringing the arrow to sight down it's length as if he'd never aimed it at Gwaine as a weapon.

"Nah, dinner's over," his companion disagreed, slouching atop an overturned half-barrel. "He's at his drink."

Gwaine made a neutral noise of interest; they gestured to indicate that he could pass. Leaving their two horses in the care of a stableboy, Gwaine introduced himself and his objective to the door attendant, and was directed to the private dining chamber, a room he'd never seen; the banquet hall and the receiving chamber formed the extent of his experience within Beckon Cove's tower. Gareth trotted readily at his heels, bright-eyed and without question, for once.

The table held tankards and pitchers; the king lounged in his chair at the head of the table, the padded back of his seat rising comfortably above his head. There were half a dozen others; Gwaine recognize only Tythan among them, but they were dressed as warriors, not nobility.

The king didn't so much as shift his position when Gwaine entered, but his eyes glittered; coherent enough, Gwaine judged. He said in a lazy rasp, "Merlin's not here. But you know that."

"Two days ago a messenger came to Orkan-broch to bring news of a Saxon force on Caerleon lands," Gwaine said.

Among the warriors there was a stir of alert exclamation and posture. The king glanced at them before looking back at Gwaine. "Saxons would never dare."

Gwaine suspected that Merlin's habit of pretense toward expected-barbarism when he met new people was a learned trait, and that the king was far cannier than he seemed. He didn't take offense at the dismissal.

"I saw them myself," he added. "Near three hundred. They're led by or at least allied with a sorceress I recognized. And so they dare."

"Coming here?" Tythan said.

"I imagine she holds Merlin a grudge and perhaps bided her time til she found men willing to take on the assault of this fortress, that she might concentrate on Merlin," Gwaine answered.

"But the prince isn't here," one of the others repeated.

"When?" the king demanded, still deep and casual in his relaxed attitude.

"If they make camp for the night, they could be here by midmorning," Gwaine said. "They made camp last night." They must have, else they would have passed by him and Gareth in the night.

"Broad daylight?" another scoffed. "There's no advantage to that attack."

"Magic gives her all the advantage she needs," Gwaine countered. "She attacked Camelot this spring with Cenred's mercenary army-"

Several made dismissive sounds of scorn.

Gwaine didn't disagree with the assessment. "And was unsuccessful mostly because of Merlin, as I understand it," he finished.

And everyone would know what that meant for them. Morgause would have no need to hide the movement of her troops, or plot to take Beckon Cove unawares.

Abruptly the king straightened out of his chair, and his men scrambled to stand in his presence. "Ready the fortress for a siege tomorrow," he ordered.

The men moved clear of their chairs to exit by the door Gwaine had entered, or by the second, at the far end of the room – except for Tythan, who exchanged a glance with his departing king before approaching Gwaine slowly. The room cleared swiftly but for the four of them – Gareth sheltering all ears and big eyes in Gwaine's shadow.

"We received a message ourselves, from Trevena," Tythan confided to Gwaine. "We'd hoped the threat wouldn't materialize, but…"

"The Lady Morgana," Gwaine said, galvanized by the recollection. "She is the sorceress' sister, and she has magic – surely she could be brought here? Even if she couldn't or wouldn't fight, she might be able to stall, or negotiate – at the very least Morgause would be unwilling to risk her sister's life in a devastating attack."

Tythan shook his head reluctantly. "It's not that easy. Were she one of our own people, maybe… but she's Camelot, and their regent, as you know, is traveling and unreachable."

"Damn politics," Gwaine growled, disappointed, then remembered his little pitcher with big ears. Whoops.

Tythan glanced down at Gareth and nearly smiled. "Who's this, then?"

"My nephew," Gwaine explained. "Gareth son of Myles of Orkan-broch." And maybe he didn't need to say, _my squire_ , and have someone point out, a disconnected mercenary shouldn't – couldn't? – take a squire officially.

"Well met, young Gareth," Tythan said to him. Then to Gwaine, "We'll find quarters for you in the barracks. Have you eaten? Your horses were seen to at the stables?"

Gwaine nodded in confirmation of both questions, and followed Tythan out of the tower. As they crossed the stony bailey ground under a low dark sky, tongue of flame from torches and braziers both flickered rather wildly in a rising wind.

Tythan spoke to the attendant at the front room at the barracks – the news had been relayed; men were tending articles of clothing, armor, weaponry, with grim attention, moving with intent purpose – then showed Gwaine down a hall and into a room that held four beds with rough wooden frames and thinly-padded straw mattresses. Three of which were made up; the fourth against the rear wall of the room was bare and held a folded gray blanket and a pillow.

"Washstand in the corner, bath at the end of the hall," Tythan said to him. "Sometimes you can catch a servant, but probably not at this time of night."

"And tomorrow they'll be too busy?" Gwaine guessed.

Tythan hummed acknowledgement. "You'll be here just the one night? Get an early start?"

Gwaine looked at him, and the older man held his gaze evaluatingly. "No," Gwaine said. "I'll stay."

"Even with…" Tythan nodded meaningfully, looking over Gwaine's shoulder.

He turned to see Gareth burrowed down under the blanket, thatch of unruly black curls on the pillow all that was visible of him. He grimaced; usually the squire would take the lesser accommodations.

Usually the squire would be sent to wash before bedtime…

"If I thought I could find Merlin in time to do any good, I'd be gone already," Gwaine said to Tythan. "But if not…" he shrugged. "I think Merlin needs me here. At the very least, I've faced Morgause before – with Merlin, obviously – but that might be worth something, tomorrow."

"Pray heaven," Tythan agreed. "Sleep fast. The morning will come before you know it."

As he turned to leave, the other three warriors came in, a jumble of face-scarves and turbans. Gwaine retreated to his bed, not having the mood or energy to initate interaction, and curious glances were as much as any of the others offered, muttering to themselves as they rolled into their beds. One didn't remove his boots; one used the washbasin. Gwaine did himself, when it became apparent the other two didn't mind having their turn usurped, scrubbing his face with his hands and tossing water over his hair.

Then he stepped out of his boots and stretched himself on the floor next to the bed, his cloak for a blanket and his head pillowed on his arms.

…..*….. …..*….. …..*….. …..*….. …..*…..

Arthur leaned back against the rock of the mountain as the last faint streaks of light faded from the sky and the curves and angles of the range above and around him lost their distinctive edges. There was no sign of the dragon. Not that he was looking.

His Shadow and Merlin's gelding cropped sparse grass in enviable animal contentment, moving around the little pool formed by a trickle descending the rock by its own chosen path. The mare flicked an occasional ear, bothered only distantly by her master's restive pacing. Arthur conserved his energy, however, since he'd been injured and ill and wasn't completely hale and hearty yet – and because there had been no evening meal. The saddles and packs had been removed and secured, but the foodstuffs were up by the dragonlord's cave, and it seemed Merlin was just as reluctant to return as he was.

His stomach pinched. He shifted and stretched, testing his arm and shoulder again. It protested at the extremes in any direction, and the range of the left arm didn't match the right, but it was definitely better than it was. He supposed he should be thankful to… Merlin's father.

Resting his hips against a slight outcropping weathered smooth, he watched Merlin out of the corner of his eye. _Well_ aware that he was avoiding thinking his own thoughts by focusing his attention deliberately outside of himself. First to the care and comfort of the mounts, to his own physical health, and to his agitated companion.

He tried to imagine how he would feel to learn that his mother was alive. To journey to find her… What might he expect? And what might he find that could upset him to the degree that Merlin's attitude and movement revealed? It wasn't a good comparison, he knew – that situation would be totally different.

What was clear was that Merlin had not found what he expected, and that it bothered him.

It occurred to Arthur that the two of them _could_ spend the night here and simply… mount up and ride away in the morning. Between the two of them they could scavenge a meal by noon at least – and then no need to climb the mountain again to face… what they didn't want to face.

But Balinor had a dragon. They couldn't ride far enough or fast enough to prevent him from confronting them, if he decided to.

And, that was not the way of a knight. Not to mention a crown prince. And he was still on this quest to prove his worth – at least to himself, if he couldn't to his council and to his knights and to his people, any longer.

So they'd have to return up the mountain sometime. And then what? Arthur had no idea, really. He'd been avoiding those thoughts, following the potential decisions to their logical conclusions in order to choose the best one. At the very least, he supposed he owed the expression of his gratitude to the dragonlord for healing magic.

Merlin was mumbling to himself as he strode back and forth over the little patch of mostly-level ground, a tilted valley tucked and twisted between two stony rises. His hands and fingers were expressively disquieted, picking at the laces of his vambraces, adjusting the fit of his breastplate, combing through his hair to make it contrarily more disheveled. Arthur concentrated to make out the words.

"Don't believe it. Don't believe it, don't believe it… Don't. Believe it."

Which meant Merlin did believe what the dragon had said. Or at least believed that there was some element of truth to it.

Arthur blinked and looked at Merlin again – not as his wry, cheerful, generous friend, but as he'd first seen him. A warrior armored and armed, dressed in Caerleon indigo, a stranger and a barbarian. Enemy, and twice over, since he'd had magic as a captive of Camelot. _You give your trust fully and freely, for one in your position_ … Maybe. But if he _hadn't_? Camelot might be in ruins. Morgause might be on the throne, and Morgana slowly corrupting under her influence into something unrecognizable and irredeemable. Very likely Arthur would be dead.

And then what of this destiny of an otherwise fairly unremarkable druid boy? So Arthur was meant to trust some, but not all; occasionally but not always… and according to destiny's decision, not his own?

He resisted that conclusion. Maybe he didn't have to trust according to sense or logic, and maybe events would unfold outside his control, but he would _own_ his choices.

But if he chose to ignore the dragon, as Merlin would advise – as Merlin would advise? – would he be falling into the very failing the Diamair warned him of? It seemed a damned-if-he-did, damned-if-he-didn't impossibility.

He sighed and rubbed his brow; his headache now had nothing to do with damaged muscle or infection-fever.

Drops of water began to pit and speckle the pool and tap Arthur's shoulders. One such slid forward off his hair and he shook his head to keep it off his face.

"I suppose," he said neutrally – the first thing he'd said since their descent, and it caught Merlin's attention mid-stride- "You have spells and enchantments to light fires and keep the rain off, and so on, all night? or we can take this bit between our teeth and climb back up there before it's so dark and wet that we slip off the mountain and break our necks trying."

Merlin stalked to him, as close as he'd been for hours, since they'd wordlessly cooperated to move their mounts to this slightly-more-optimal location, and stared into Arthur's eyes. He couldn't read the younger prince's expression; he had no idea what Merlin could tell by looking at him, either.

"I don't want to," Merlin said in a low voice. A raindrop brushed through the curls on his forehead and tracked down his face like a tear, unnoticed in his intensity. "But… I do. I want to hate him… but I don't. I shouldn't _feel_ like this. But I do."

"Congratulations," Arthur said dryly. "You have a father."

Merlin blinked. And said, his manner easing slightly, "How are you doing with… all of this?"

"My shoulder feels better." Arthur raised his chin and his brows, challenging Merlin to dare clarify what he meant and demand a different answer.

Merlin sighed, giving a wry grimace, and pushed his hand through his hair again – then wiped it down his face as more fat raindrops pattered down with a gust of wind. "Well," he said. "If we must conduct ourselves with responsibility and noble decorum… Let's go."

He led the way, which was good because Arthur didn't remember much of the blind descent, using hands for balance and stability at nearly every step. It was rough rocky going but nowhere a steep climb threatening more than a short tumble if footing gave way, and Merlin kept casting glances back to check on him.

At the river providing border between Camelot and Caerleon, he had paused to consider this _alone and unaided_ business. And this evening, he'd been tempted to wish his path had never crossed with the druid boy's – which would have excluded the need for reunion with Merlin, and this side trip to meet the dragonlord and his problematic dragon.

"You know," Merlin said over his shoulder, just as Arthur glimpsed the glow of firelight from the level of the cave above them. "If you start to think about it, why would he even say that, true or not. Why would he offer a friendly warning to the son of the man who captured and chained him…"

"Thanks for that," Arthur said shortly. He didn't have to ask which _he_ Merlin meant.

"So… maybe it was the opposite of a friendly warning."

"An unfriendly warning?" Arthur suggested sarcastically.

Merlin reached the flat ground before the cave and turned to give Arthur a hand over the last boulder - since they'd climbed from the stream and pool below, rather than following the path they'd evidently ridden earlier, judging by where he'd found the horses, though he couldn't clearly recall it.

"An unfriendly riddle," Merlin corrected. "Meant to tie you up in knots trying to figure it out, rather than giving any information of actual use."

Well, it worked.

Merlin didn't wait for him to respond, only turned and headed for the cave with a belligerent hunch to his stalking stride. Arthur followed; if the raindrops continued or increased, by midnight there wouldn't be anything left of the cookfire in the pit, outside the cramped cave and open to the sky. He wondered if there was anything left of the meal cooked over that fire…

Balinor was crouched at the mouth of the cave, just where Arthur had returned to consciousness with the throbbing ache in his shoulder cooled and soothed – and a dragon looming unexpectedly over them all. He had a chunk of peeled wood in his hand that he was whittling at with his knife, and spared them only a single, expressionless glance.

 _Hiding_ his feelings rather than letting them see the utter lack, Arthur suspected. And wondered if he might not end up with new insights into his own father, in observing Balinor.

Merlin paused just beside him, looking to the back of the cave. "He's sleeping?"

Over Merlin's shoulder Arthur saw a curled-up, blanket-covered figure on the dragonlord's pallet. So he'd avoided thinking of this problem by contemplating Merlin's state of mind… but he'd also avoided thinking about things from the boy's point of view. _Hells_.

"Brought your bedrolls in out of the rain." Balinor pointed his knife to their packs, opposite him and halfway to the back of the cave, which was scarcely wider than a man's body fully stretched out anyway. "You're welcome."

Merlin moved toward their blankets – the travel-sacks would provide a decent pillow, and perhaps a morsel of dinner, too – and Arthur said to Balinor for both of them, "Thank you."

He glanced up, dark eyes wary beneath tangled gray hair, and muttered with reluctance, "How's the shoulder?"

"It feels great." Arthur deliberately exaggerated and Balinor huffed, knowing he was being flattered but not completely rejecting the compliment.

But it was a dismissive huff, and he went back to chipping at the shapeless chunk of wood in his hand. Merlin offered Arthur a strip of dried meat and Arthur joined him, chewing as they positioned their packs, their blankets, and then their bodies to sleep. Any reason to keep a night watch? habit asked. Instinct answered no, not with Merlin right next, and preparing to close his eyes.

Another voice said, with _him_ in the cave?

Dammit.

Arthur leaned toward his knees, bent and pointed to the ceiling of the cave, draping his wrists over them. Merlin might be upset at how they found out, that they found out at all, and what precisely they found out – but Arthur was going to have to be the one to deal with, _what now._

The fire outside was dying in faint and occasional fits of hissing sputters. Arthur considered sleeping with his belt knife in his hand, and some part of him was disgusted with the pragmatic suspicion. His father would tell him to, not to trust any of these three. He wasn't his father and didn't want to be, but his father wasn't always wrong.

And then Balinor was tucking his knife away and pushing to his feet with a heavy sigh and a clicking of various joints. Arthur shifted, glancing about. There was room between Merlin and Mordred, but if the dragonlord wanted to roll over in the night, he'd collide with one of them. Or he could stretch along the opposite wall between their boots and the rock – or lay right next to Arthur and catch all the rain that blew in.

And this was his home.

"Maybe we could-" he began, just as Balinor swayed toward stepping outside; the older man glanced over his shoulder but didn't turn back. Arthur fumbled, "You're not staying?"

"No, I'll be spending the night up top, with Kilgarrah." Arthur was quite sure the older man wasn't looking at or speaking to him, but to the son who'd turned his back and rolled up in his blanket. "He's pretty decent for spreading body heat, and his wings are like a tent for keeping out rain."

"Ah." Arthur wondered about making some lame joke about Balinor being more comfortable than them, but couldn't think of a way to word it that wasn't awkward, under the circumstances.

"Probably won't get much sleep," Balinor added, lingering to answer no question they'd asked, but still with the wistful sense of speaking to the son he'd just met, and with whom he wasn't getting along with as well as it was logical to assume he would wish. Unless he was so far affected from decades-old betrayal and distrustful solitary living that he cared for his son as little as any other man he shunned with this chosen lifestyle… but Arthur didn't think so. "Bloody cryptic dragon. We'll argue half the night and _if_ he says anything new, it'll be twice as confusing."

In his blanket-roll Merlin let out a grunted chuckle that sounded involuntary.

Balinor shifted. Arthur wanted to say something like, he was sorry for what his father had done to the older man, to his life and his family, for years lost and that wasn't something that could be reclaimed. Apology seemed trite and hollow, but it might be better than appearing to ignore the offense.

But Merlin spoke instead, and his voice was not dissimilar to Balinor's, low and rough and touched by sarcasm. "You mean he isn't absolutely reliable?"

Arthur's eyes passed Merlin, trying to see if there was any motion from the boy's form on the dragonlord's pallet. He didn't think so.

Balinor didn't exactly answer, but he made a final grumble that offered to be companionable. "Opinionated riddler."

Merlin was thoughtfully still. Balinor disappeared into the night and the fitful raindrops and Arthur wriggled himself into a position that would allow him to sleep.

Neither of them said anything, and if Merlin succumbed to sleep before he did, Arthur was not aware of it.

 **A/N: Some dialogue from ep.1.1 "The Dragon's Call", ep.1.8 "The Beginning of the End", and ep.2.11 "The Witch's Quickening". And a "Miles Hendon" moment for Gwaine… and if you don't get that reference, shame on you. Go finish reading your Twain. And if you don't know who that is… I'm done.**

 **PS, since I've been called on such before, I want to let you know, the phrase 'Little pitchers have big ears' was first recorded in 1546. Therefore, probably in common usage for longer than that… therefore I judge it something that fits the theoretical timeline for Arthurian legend…**


	13. Fathers and Sons

**Chapter 13: Fathers and Sons**

Merlin woke just before dawn, sitting up and blinking toward the clear blue and single remaining star of the sky visible out the cave opening. The clouds and rain had cleared.

Beside him, Arthur sprawled on his back, snoring slightly with every gentle inhalation. He certainly looked like he was doing better, physically. Otherwise… Merlin propped an elbow on his knee and rested his forehead in his palm. Otherwise, he didn't know. Arthur had taken the news of Morgana's illegal magic and subsequent choices that endangered Camelot fairly well, he thought, reacting with controlled nobility, initially – but even months later, he'd traveled to Trevena to give Morgana to Acollyn in marriage. There seemed to be no second thoughts troubling him over his decisions.

How he _felt_ about it was a different matter. But at the very least, Arthur Pendragon did not seem like a man who let his feelings rule him and determine his course, if he had time and occasion for deliberation.

But this time… Arthur's trust in his own judgment had been undermined, even if the Diamair's words had been ultimately to encourage Arthur toward trust and away from suspicion, generally. Merlin could see Arthur banning Mordred from Camelot – even after the laws he wanted to change were changed, and it was safe and legal for those with magic to travel Camelot freely. He could see the prince regent feeling duty-bound to report this ominous bit of unsubstantiated hearsay to his council and maybe his senior knights and he could _clearly_ see a slew of young knight-hopefuls setting out on quests to seek and destroy this threat to their king's well-being.

And Mordred himself?

Merlin turned his head, not lifting it from his hand, to study the boy on his other side, hidden deeper in the gloom of the cave. Mordred was curled, motionless and cocooned in the dragonlord's blanket, but Merlin could tell that his arm was propped and padded. The bone set and knit, as he understood, but the process not complete, or the result strong.

Unless he was wrong, Mordred didn't have a definite idea of where he would go or what he would do. Merlin had considered offering him a place at Beckon Cove – or writing to Alator to see if he had any brilliant options.

Now, though… Now he wasn't sure. Say he rejected the dragon's warning and say Mordred did also and say they spent years as close friends and companions, learning and experimenting in magic, traveling back and forth to Camelot and other places… and then say something _happened_.

Could he ever forgive himself? What would he regret more, trying to help Mordred reject and avoid his destiny and _failing_ – or acting on the warning and rejecting Mordred? It would be either, _I knew better and I was a blind fool_ , or – _What if I could've helped him and because I didn't, he turned on Arthur?..._

It was awful because ultimately, it would be Mordred's decision to make, not Merlin's. He could try to influence and encourage as much as the boy allowed, but the result would not be within his control.

 _Unless_ , a voice in his head that sounded very like King Thurston said, _you take control and that decision away from Mordred. Knife between his ribs. Poison in his soup so that no one knows it was you, or that it was deliberate…_

Merlin blinked, sick to his stomach, and tears brushed his cheeks. He wanted more information; he wanted answers. He was going to hunt down this dragon and demand details…

He moved to rise, laying aside his blanket softly so he wouldn't wake either of the others. Hesitated, then laid his hand oh-so-lightly on Arthur's chest.

 _Ic the aweardian_. He sighed, and pushed silently to his feet.

The ashes in the firepit were damp and cold and if Balinor kept such a thing as a woodbox stocked, Merlin couldn't tell where it was. Maybe convenience in the little things didn't matter when your whole life was inconvenient. And they could eat cold again, though if they weren't going to linger here at the cave – why would they? it was excruciatingly uncomfortable and Balinor wasn't exactly confined to the mountain at all – they would have to hunt and catch and cook, by the noon meal.

He'd taken off his breastplate but not the vambraces from his wrists, and with the knife still in his right boot, he felt no hesitation in exploring higher up the mountainside. That was where the dragon was, after all.

Kilgarrah sensed him, too. Else why speak to warn him at the moment he'd turned back to answer Mordred's call for help?

Merlin was hard-pressed not to take it personally, when the great copper-bronze-scaled body unfurled from a blind ledge above him and flung itself casually off the mountain in a rolling dive that dropped him a hundred feet or more above the valley before his wings opened and lifted him, beating against the air almost lazily – around the peak just to the north of east, where the sun was beginning to show.

 _Kilgarrah!_ he called, annoyed but resigned.

There was no answer.

 _I suppose allowances must be made for your upbringing!_ he sent after the great beast. If Kilgarrah heard, he ignored Merlin.

But above him at the edge of the dragon's nocturnal perch, Balinor appeared, stretching his arms wide and setting his coattails swaying at his heels. He was looking toward the eastern horizon – leagues and _leagues_ distant, from this height. Merlin didn't think he'd been noticed yet, but the moment he moved, he'd catch the other's attention.

His father's attention.

So Merlin doggedly focused on the rock of the mountain, the next handhold, the next foothold, and when he scrambled up to the ledge – the top of the mountain but for a mound rising ten or twelve feet further – Balinor was waiting for him. Watching him, and said nothing.

"Did he say anything else?" Merlin asked immediately.

Balinor pressed his lips together beneath his beard in irritation – for Merlin or for Kilgarrah or for both or for _everything_ , he couldn't tell. "No."

Merlin took a second to get his breathing under control, knowing he could simply turn again and scramble back down to the cave and breakfast. And feeling that would be a mistake. So he marched over to his father and stuck out his hand so abruptly the older man flinched. "Merlin," he said, and still didn't have enough air to fill his lungs and breathe normally. "Son of Hunith, prince of Caerleon."

Balinor tentatively fitted Merlin's hand into his own, eyes on their fingers. "Balinor. Last of the dragonlords. And I am…" he shifted his weight and cleared his throat; his voice was rough and uneven– "so very pleased to meet you."

"I didn't want it to be like this," Merlin said. "I never was… angry at you. Before."

Balinor hadn't released Merlin's hand. He snorted, and lifted his off hand to rub his nose with his cuff. "What did your mother say?"

"She said pay no mind to the boys who call names, they don't know the first thing about marriage vows," Merlin said, knowing the honesty might be a bit brutal, but better than nicely ignoring the issues. "She said you went on a trip. And that you must surely have died, else you would've come home again."

Balinor seemed to choke a bit, but nodded, accepting whatever censure he thought he deserved. Though Merlin didn't think he needed to explain, exactly; Merlin wasn't a bewildered child. Nor did he wish the older man to protest, if he'd known about Merlin, things could have been different – that was neither here nor there, now. And he supposed he might make decisions Freya wouldn't understand or agree with or like at all, for the sake of her safety.

"So they took you for a prince," Balinor said instead, turning Merlin's hand and touching it differently, to discover and study it, fingers and calluses. "And they trained you for a swordsman."

Merlin's turn to snort. "Yeah. They tried."

That was a subject that was tied quite close to his emotions, still, years of struggle and pain, exhaustion and conviction of inevitable failure, weeping and raging. He decided it was too deep and murky a place to attempt to show the older man, when he was still little more than a stranger in reality.

If Balinor sensed any of that, he didn't let on. He dropped Merlin's hand and met his eyes without lifting his head, and there was a glimmer of _something_ in his eyes. Humor… hope? "Are you any good?"

"I'm fair," Merlin allowed. "In my case, it was repetition over instinct or skill, though."

His father's soft chuckle warmed him, and he loved that and tried to resist it, at once. "I was taught only the very basics, by a friend of mine among the knights. Long ago."

Merlin realized that he'd only been anticipated half the possibilities, in searching for his father – he'd been looking for the future. Now he understood he'd also found the _past_. He admitted, "I include magic when I have to. Disarm my opponent, avoid being disarmed myself…"

The older man's eyebrows lifted. "That's supposed to be extremely difficult. Most magic-users who trained in ordinary combat used one or the other, to avoid splitting their attention, which was a weakness that could be exploited."

Merlin cocked his head, considering. The skills seemed to meld together just fine, to him. "Did you ever try them together – magic while you were learning the sword?"

"My own father thought it a waste of time. He thought I ought to focus on my magic… and the dragons. But I didn't have a great gift for magic, and Geart… well, he was my friend. It was time well spent."

Merlin let his grin spread, hearing that name. "Do you remember Gwaine?"

Balinor's head shot up, his expression - half-hidden behind hair and beard – surprised, then contemplative. "He was just a little lad…"

"He's my friend," Merlin said. "He was with me in Camelot."

"Huh." Balinor squinted away into the sun.

And there was a lot more to say on that account, too – if Balinor didn't know Geart was dead, and surely he wouldn't know that Gwaine had not grown up as expected in Camelot. And there was the sensitive topic of Gwaine's position these days – envoy to Arthur Pendragon, because he was friends with Camelot's prince, too.

"I… didn't come here to impose," Merlin began awkwardly, toeing at the loose rocks on the rough ground.

"You're not imposing-"

"I came to say, you're welcome at Beckon Cove," Merlin went on, without looking at the older man. "Now that you know where we are, and that we're all right – you could come. I meant to say, right away if you'd like, you could travel with me. Only now that's…" Merlin sighed and rubbed his forehead.

"Complicated," Balinor agreed. "What of your companions and their plans?"

"I don't know," Merlin said, crossing his arms over his chest and scuffing again. "Arthur was on his knight's quest-"

"Ah," said Balinor, as if he knew what that meant, and Merlin didn't question.

"And because I went back to help him, he said he'd ride along with me and as he's got no actual proof his quest was completed successfully-" Balinor snorted and Merlin felt defensiveness rise. "I was going to go to Camelot with him to bear witness. Whether they'd believe me or not…"

"They wouldn't," Balinor observed with dark confidence that Merlin resented.

How could he know, after twenty years' absence from the place? Maybe they _would_ believe Merlin. Maybe it would be enough if enough of them believed Merlin, if there were those like Leon…

"And Mordred hadn't yet decided what he wanted to do, where he wanted to go, but now the _dragon_ -" he very nearly spat the word, and Balinor cocked a disapproving eyebrow that made him sorry – and wish he'd added an expletive – "has complicated that."

"His arm hasn't healed completely," Balinor said softly. "He could stay here with me."

Merlin went absolutely still. His instinct spoke against that – between Balinor who believed Arthur was an enemy and Kilgarrah who'd shredded the boy's identity and future with a single phrase of casual cruelty – hells. What would become of Mordred, then? Though he supposed it was Mordred's choice – even knowing what they knew, it wouldn't be fair for him and Arthur to _send_ or restrict him somewhere…

Something deeper than instinct pictured it, the druid boy and the dragonlord – working together, talking together, conversations and observations and training. Maybe even laughing together as a cozy campfire kept the darkness at bay, and they would bid each other goodnight…

As he and Hunith had done, all his life, assurance of love and safety implicit.

As Mordred had not enjoyed, for _years_.

Merlin sighed and rubbed his knuckle between his brows, squinting his eyes shut. "I suppose that would be up to him," he said, feeling his voice go a little husky. "Does… that mean you're not coming to Beckon Cove? Or that you'd return to live here, in any case?"

When his father didn't respond, Merlin dropped his hand and looked over – Balinor was staring into the distance again, mouth dropped open and brows slightly raised.

"It's been so long since my choice mattered to anyone," he said, and gave Merlin a glance that was embarrassingly shy, for the wild, bearded man. "Do you think… Hunith would want…"

Not a question he needed to hear the end of. He interrupted to answer with a question. "Do you not remember her at all?"

Balinor made a sound that was either a laugh or a sob, and covered his mouth with his hand as if to stop any more of its kind from emerging. "Bloody hells, boy, I remember her every night. Every waking moment. I was in _pieces_ and she put me back together, and…"

He turned away slightly, and Merlin sobered, knowing he was looking down toward his cave and remembering the son of the man who'd chased him from his bride.

 _Arthur's not like his father_. Merlin knew Balinor would never listen to him, or believe him. He only hoped the older man had enough humanity left to be able to see it for himself. Eventually.

"Mm. I can use a fire spell to light firewood, if you've got it," he offered neutrally. "Or to warm breakfast by magic, if you don't. And then – we can decided where to go, from there."

"Where – and when," Balinor agreed.

…..*….. …..*….. …..*….. …..*….. …..*…..

Mordred was first aware that his nose was cold. He sniffed at a strange and unfamiliar mix of scents on the blanket enveloping him, and remembered. The dragonlord. The cave – he opened his eyes – the dragon, and what he said, and…

He noticed faint small sounds behind him at that moment, and rolled so quickly his arm ached.

Out the mouth of the cave he could see Arthur, crouched at the firepit sideways to him. There was no smoke or flickering flame; Arthur's hands hung motionless over his knees and he gazed away over the mountains, seeming to take no notice of Mordred at all.

His arm ached, and his chest ached and his throat ached; it was unsurprising, then, that his eyes filled with tears. How could he possibly be responsible for Arthur's death?

 _You don't have to if you don't want to_ , Balinor had said. And he knew that prophecy never forced a man's actions. Only prompted, or led him into the choice. Sooner or later. That meant – did that mean someday he would _want_ Arthur dead?

It wasn't fair. It wasn't fair. That those two should be born with such glowing futures, while he had been damned as a murderer…

Wait – how did that work? If Arthur had a destiny and prophecies to fulfill, nothing Mordred did or didn't do would change that or stop it, it couldn't. Arthur's life would not be ended before its time, even if it was – somehow – at Mordred's hand.

Did that make him feel any better? He sniffled into the dragonlord's blanket and felt his stomach pinch with hunger – he hadn't been able to swallow much from the night before – and Arthur bounced up from his crouch, turning to the cave.

Mordred considered shutting his eyes in a pretense of continued sleep.

"Good morning," Arthur said neutrally – politely.

More reserved than kind, and Mordred's heart shrank as if from a blow. Though it wasn't Arthur's fault, really. It wasn't fair. Maybe he would be the one to end Arthur's life when it was time, but why must Arthur know that – and Merlin? They would hate him – they would shun him and mistrust him always – they might try to kill him, so he would never…

"Well," Arthur added after a pause; he was looking down at their jumbled belongings to one side of the cave. "At least it's _morning_. _Good_ remains to be seen."

"Good is impossible," Mordred told him around his handful of blanket, and he didn't even care that his throat sounded clogged with tears. "Ever again."

Arthur sighed, rubbing a hand down his face. "Don't tell Merlin this, but I'm inclined to agree with him – _damn the dragon_. Whatever made him say that in front of you?"

In front of _us_. His arm ached, but Mordred wrestled with the blanket to get upright. Because he _had_ wanted to know his destiny; he'd searched for it. Even if what he found was horrible and unfair, he supposed it could be said that he'd finally achieved his quest. Maybe he understood Arthur's disappointment a little better now, but then – Arthur's failure had resulted in someone's freedom, not someone's death.

"Aren't you glad you know?" he demanded. "Now you can trust other people without worrying about who wants you dead, since you know it's me you can't trust."

Arthur looked at him. And he couldn't help flinching back into a ball, knees into his chest, when the prince stepped over their travel-packs and approached the dragonlord's pallet. Probably Arthur noticed the reaction, but he only squatted down with his back to the rough stone wall of the cave near the pillow where Mordred had laid his head.

"I'm afraid," he said slowly, "things are rarely that simple. Life is never that simple."

"What do you mean?" Mordred said suspiciously.

"Even if I believed my life – or health, or safety, or those around me - would never be threatened by anyone else, whether you were involved or not…"

Mordred suddenly thought, someone else could enchant him to kill Arthur. Or conversely, he could pay someone else to do it. What had the dragon foreseen? What circumstances – when, and how?

"That doesn't mean I can trust everyone else around me, people I know, people I meet," Arthur finished. "Even if I accepted that you were untrustworthy, that does not make every other person in the world trustworthy. I still have to make those judgments myself."

He was speaking to Mordred exactly as he had every other day – taking time to explain, when he didn't have to. Mordred put his knees down and inched closer to be able to see Arthur's face better, in the indirect daylight of the cave. He looked older – tireder, maybe a bit harder – more ordinary, with beard-stubble growing.

"And do you? Accept that I'm untrustworthy?"

Arthur grimaced at the opposite wall of the cave. "Yesterday at this time I would have said, absolutely not. I trust you. I don't know you that well, but I helped you and you helped me and we've been into and out of Ismere together, and we met the Diamair. Did hearing what the dragon said make you suddenly wish to witness my demise?"

Mordred shook his head. Maybe he had no real reason to trust the Pendragon prince – or anyone, men were fallible, weak and mistaken and confused and inherently unreliable – but he believed Arthur was genuinely speaking from his heart and it _mattered_ what was in his heart, right now. Maybe more than anything else.

"Then I don't know why simply hearing those same words would make me believe I couldn't trust you. I won't lie and pretend it didn't affect me, just as I won't insult you by telling you not to let it affect you. I have no idea what he meant by doing that – damn dragon – but when I take my vow of coronation, I'm going to swear to cause _justice_ with _mercy_. And that means, no matter how confused my feelings might be, I can't let them enter into my treatment of people – I can't sentence innocent people, and I can't let the guilty escape punishment. As long as I can recognize what I'm doing, and control myself… I need to treat people the way they deserve to be treated."

He was clenching and unclenching his fist without seeming to be aware of it, and his eyes were locked on the far wall of the cave. Mordred thought he might have been trying to convince himself, and wondered how effective the speech was.

"If I'm betrayed, I may wish that I'd seen or guessed it beforehand from some word or look or attitude," Arthur went on. "But I won't suspect someone without evidence. And I won't condemn someone unless I'm convinced beyond doubt that they're guilty. And if I'm betrayed, that will be a burden for the conscience of the one doing it – not mine. Not if I strive to be… fair."

"Perhaps you ought not say, _damn dragon_ , then," Mordred ventured.

Arthur blinked, then gave him a wry half-smile. "I suppose you're right. If I'm judging on evidence, and not my feelings…" He made a frustrated sound and rubbed his face again, mumbling into his fingers, "Life is rarely that simple…"

After a moment Mordred volunteered, "I know where Balinor stored the last of dinner he didn't eat."

Arthur eyed him sideways. "Hungry, are you? Come on, you can show me. We don't have to wait for Merlin and Balinor if they're busy talking somewhere. Getting to know each other."

Mordred nodded and scrambled up, folding the blanket slowly and clumsily – though he was immensely relieved to be able to use his arm at all today. Arthur was going to try not to hold Mordred's destiny again him – even if he turned Mordred loose to his own care rather than offering further aid and companionship. Even if he concluded that Mordred was never to be allowed into Camelot, or anywhere he was likely to go.

But what would Emrys decide? He supposed that, if he was meant to have some hand in Arthur's death somehow, he would have to survive til that appointed time. But Merlin was a sorcerer, and survival didn't have to be a pleasant thing at all…

Arthur alerted to the cave opening. "Oh – they're back."

…..*….. …..*….. …..*….. …..*….. …..*…..

Balinor, following Merlin, was almost down to the level of his cave when a thought occurred to him. He'd been so distracted by the novelty and hope of finding that his son – _his son!_ tough and trusting at once, parts of him and Hunith, both – had sought him out for civil conversation on neutral topics, that he'd forgotten.

Merlin's presence on Kilgarrah's ledge meant Pendragon had been left alone with the druid boy prophesied to be his doom.

His heart leaped to his throat as Merlin, below him, leaped lightly down to Balinor's courtyard. Apparently Merlin trusted Uther's son, but it was entirely possible the Pendragon had taken the opportunity to rid himself of the threat Mordred posed. Maybe a knife in the ribs was messy and obvious, but the boy had already fallen once down a mountainside, it would not be too difficult to make it look like-

"We – we thought we'd start breakfast."

Balinor slid the last stretch, clearing the rock to see around Merlin to Pendragon and the druid boy, pausing at the mouth of the cave with various vessels and packets in hand.

Neither wore an expression particularly awkward or angry; neither betrayed tension in his attitude or stance. If they'd spoken about Kilgarrah's revelation – and maybe they hadn't, though Balinor would be surprised to hear it claimed for truth – they seemed to have reached some sort of understanding.

"We have rations enough for the three of us for two days," Pendragon said – to Merlin, but his eyes flicked past the boy to Balinor. "We need to decide whether to stay or go, and make plans accordingly."

Merlin nodded his agreement; if he was surprised by the Pendragon's offer to discuss and entertain suggestions rather than simply barking orders, Balinor could not tell it by the set of his shoulders or his uninterrupted stride, passing Uther's son to approach Mordred, who drew away to put the stone of the mountain at his back.

It bothered Balinor to see the boy afraid of his son – Merlin had been angry at Kilgarrah for revealing an unsolicited foretelling, but that had been for Mordred's sake mostly, as Balinor understood it. Then again, he hadn't really seen enough to understand how these three traveled together. Neither Mordred nor Merlin seemed to believe Arthur capable of misleading or manipulation.

Pendragon came to Balinor, hard jaw and level eyes and Balinor was surprised to think, he didn't immediately remind one of Uther, at least in looks. "I apologize if it seems we've trespassed on your hospitality, but Mordred had seen you put away last night's leavings. And we didn't know when the two of you would be back."

"It's fine," Balinor said, because that was the truth. They'd taken their meal from what Merlin had carried up from their supplies, not his own more meager stores. Two days would be pushing it, for him. The surprise was the apology; though Balinor suspected, he could not state definitively that it was not genuine.

"I feel I should thank you again, for healing my shoulder," Pendragon added – without so much as a flicker of deliberate prevarication. "Last night it was better, but this morning I can say with all honesty, that it feels great."

Balinor nodded; the fact of healing was unsurprising, too. An old remedy and a familiar spell. "Does it make your skin crawl, knowing you were touched with magic?" he challenged.

Pendragon's mouth pulled sideways ruefully. "A year ago, it might have done. Healing is something Merlin's never tried on me – I don't imagine his king encouraged that field of study. My… experience around magic is limited, and in my position wariness is wiser than comprehensive acceptance, but… I trust Merlin, he's a good man."

Warmth exploded through Balinor's chest from his heart at the compliment, and he was not ashamed to revel in it; he kept his face impassive as he met Pendragon's eyes as the prince continued.

"I hope I'm not wrong to trust you for his sake – I know you have far more reason to suspect me and consider me an enemy, than anything else. Someday when it means something to you, I will apologize both personally and officially for what my father did to you and your family."

Balinor sneered, but it felt faint and unconvincing on his face. And in any case, the prince was already averting his gaze and moving away to the firepit without waiting for a verbal response. Even if they didn't light so much as kindling, it was the most natural place to gather for a meal.

To think. Breaking his fast with Uther's son. This young man, an unseen babe and a faint squall behind doors, when Balinor was last in tumultuous Camelot. Before Gaius had woken him in his bed with a breathless warning to flee. This boy had maybe taken his first steps, when Balinor had last seen the white spires of the citadel he'd called a second home. From afar, as he'd been betrayed into betraying his kin. And because of him, Balinor had never seen his own son take his first steps…

He turned his head to watch Merlin put a hand on Mordred's shoulder, speaking to him too low for Balinor to hear the words. It was a gentle, brotherly gesture – it was more. Balinor blinked through moisture and saw his son as a _man_. A prince, and therefore marriage was a consideration. And if marriage, then babes, children of his own…

His breath caught at the simultaneous pain and pleasure. Family, when he'd thought himself alone. So many moments irrevocably lost in the past – and yet perhaps offered back to him in the form of a new generation for the future. That was a prophecy he wouldn't mind hearing.

Mordred nodded, maybe a bit reluctantly, and Merlin let his hand drop as they moved together toward Balinor, and Arthur at the firepit.

Balinor was willing to ignore the subject of Kilgarrah's cryptic message, since it clearly upset the druid boy. He said to his son in a tone of carrying sarcasm, "Pendragon claims he trusts you. Perhaps you can explain how that came about?"

Merlin's eyes lit and his grin spread mischievous as he glanced down at Mordred – diverted by his own interest in the significance of the tale, maybe. And the sight of that expression made Balinor's heart throb again in a way he'd long thought impossible. In a way he'd long thought he'd protected himself from. It was the bittersweet ache of love – the risk, the fear, the hope.

He loved his son.

"It's quite a long story," Merlin warned them, oblivious to the internal turmoil Balinor wrestled.

"Not if you tell it without embellishment," Pendragon said, with a warning note in his voice that pricked Balinor's ears – but went unnoticed by either Merlin or Mordred.

"Embellish? Me?" Merlin said, pretending outraged innocence.

A feeling of delight threatened to lift Balinor's spirits just as much as that cheeky grin. "It doesn't matter," he spoke up as Mordred knelt across the firepit from Arthur's crouch, adding the items he'd carried in preparation for their breakfast. "When we're done eating we can pack up and I'll show you the best way south from here. Maybe travel with you a little way."

Three smiles directed his way, differing by slight degree only.

Hells, was he going _soft_?

Balinor scowled at Merlin. "Think you can eat and talk at the same time, boy?"

Arthur snorted, and Merlin's eyes – Hunith's eyes – twinkled as he responded, "Almost certainly."

…..*….. …..*….. …..*….. …..*….. …..*…..

Freya's fingers twisted together as she paced the hallways. Paused by the door she didn't quite dare to rap to request entrance – and continued to the end of the hall where a bowman's window let in a little light and air for the sake of a chill that was still welcome before the days shortened into autumn.

It rather reminded her of that interminable fortnight when Merlin had been captured and taken to Camelot. Then, she had no right to knock and make requests for conversation or information, from either woman occupied within the queen's chambers.

Now she did. And the thought still twisted her stomach in knots.

She smoothed her hand down the front of her deep-blue gown of serviceable linen, smiling a little giddily – even so, she was feeling much better than she ought to be, today. Than she expected to be. Her bones should have ached, low in her back; she should have restless nights when no amount of bedclothes was the comfortable amount; meals should sit oddly within her; she should feel unaccountably grouchy most of the day… She should have been – she _should have been_ indisposed, for unmentionable female reasons, and she _wasn't_.

Her feet took her back down the corridor to the door. Maegden would say, just go in. Maegden was probably gossiping with the laundresses, between breakfast and dinner and after her hour's worth of tidying was done.

She wished Merlin was here. Maybe she should talk to him first… but he wasn't a woman, and couldn't confirm – and as long as it went unconfirmed by someone she'd trust far more than she trusted herself, maybe she shouldn't even bring it up to him.

Deep breath. Hand pressed to nervous flutters in her stomach. Knock on the door.

Muffled summons from within.

Freya pushed the door open, venturing only her head around to see Annis sitting sideways to her desk, head propped on her hand. Hunith was perched at the edge of a seat beside her, leaning forward – and both their expressions were tight. Worried.

She was reminded of the scene that spring, all over again, Merlin left behind in a kingdom that executed his kind, and she blurted, "What's wrong?"

Hunith sat back, and Annis gave her head a little shake, straightening. "It is something you need to know, but I'll tell you in a moment. You have a concern? Come in."

Freya eased around the door and paid attention to making sure it was latched behind her. Maybe she should have gotten Hunith alone, earlier? Maybe the question would disturb the queen, given the queen's… condition.

"I have a… question. A situation. Possibly." She tried to make her fingers behave calmly, crossing the room to fumble her way into another chair. Her face felt glowing red like a hot coal, and she couldn't quite meet Merlin's mother's eyes. "I think – _maybe_ … I mean, it's been… several weeks now, more than it's supposed to be-"

"You think you're with child?" the queen said, too calmly. But her eyes were brilliant with satisfaction and anticipation. Hunith made a sound like a controlled gasp, and beamed hopefully.

"I think so – I don't know." Freya's fingers worried at the cuff of her sleeve in her lap and the flutters of nervousness cooled toward trepidation more than happiness. "I… I thought, after…"

"After your wedding, dear girl, it was bound to happen sooner or later," the queen said, speaking more gently than she usually did. "Anyone can see how… _attentive_ he is toward you."

The glow rose uncomfortably, and Freya dropped her eyes. That was not what she had been about to say. "After the… curse," she said stiffly. "I never thought… like other girls think. Husbands and _babies_. I guess I expected… maybe I didn't deserve… that it wouldn't be all right. Inside me. With me as a-"

The queen startled her by rising abruptly. Freya blinked unnoticed tears as Annis rounded her desk, seized her by the shoulders and drew her up to standing before wrapping her arms around Freya's shoulders.

Annis had embraced her once, the day she and Merlin finally were married, after the week of flooding and two days' delay… Never before, and never since, til just now.

"You _know_ he never thought like that," Annis stated briskly, as Freya clung to her for a brief desperate moment. "You know _we_ never thought like that. Even if it hadn't been sooner or later – even if something goes wrong. He loves you, and you both can love a child and heir not of your blood, if it truly comes to that. Caerleon at least, need not be choosy like that." She released Freya to hold her at arms' length. "I won't tell you not to worry because you will anyway. I will tell you, you're not alone in this, no matter what. You're _loved_ , no matter what."

Freya nodded, trying to breathe evenly and not let herself sob with gratitude and a feeling of release, sharing her burden of suspicion. Whatever she might have expected from Annis…

"Why don't you come with me," Hunith suggested, putting an arm around Freya's shoulder that was gentler and softer than the queen's, but just as strong in support. "We'll talk details – I can set your mind to rest a little, at least."

"Don't forget about-" Annis began.

Hunith was nodding in response, anticipating the question, when the door was thrown open with careless haste.

A warrior – headscarf hanging down one ear over his chest, sword dangling bared from his fingers – braced himself on the threshold, eyes wide and chest heaving for breath under leather-and-iron armor. Freya didn't immediately remember his name, but his precipitate appearance startled her – and the sounds from the hallway behind him startled her even more.

Rushing. Raised voices shrill with tension.

"Word from the wall," the warrior blurted. "They've been sighted. His Majesty says take cover til they know what to expect of the magic."

Annis gave a hard, determined sigh. "I rather hope I have a chance to give this witch a piece of my mind. She has terrible timing. You may tell the king I have the household in hand."

The warrior ducked abbreviated acknowledgement, and rushed away.

Freya's chills and flutters were of another sort and for another reason. "What's going on?" she repeated, remembering again the expressions of the other two women when she first entered the room.

"We'll find Maegden and do the outbuildings," Hunith said to the queen, who gave the chamber – her desk – a long keen look of regret before moving to the open door.

"Yes, fine. I'll meet you below with the rest from the tower." Annis swept out before them, and Freya stayed close to Hunith's side, hurrying down the corridor in the opposite direction, toward the main stair.

"Merlin's Gwaine came last night, bringing news of Saxon troops possibly – probably – coming here," Hunith said in a low voice.

It wasn't the first time Beckon Cove had been under siege, though years had dimmed her memory of the last time – the only time in Freya's experience. Put out the fires in the baking ovens and stay indoors. And worry about Merlin, of course, but he'd been fine. At that time, seemingly oblivious of her among the dozens of people he and the other warriors were protecting.

Was that what _take cover_ meant?

"How long have you know?" she asked, eyes on her feet as they sped down the stone steps.

"First thing this morning. You had breakfast in your room, we weren't going to say anything til we were sure. No use causing premature panic generally, either."

Freya hummed, reaching the bottom of the stair one second after her mother-by-marriage, and glancing about the growing consternation among the servants – the warriors all outside, she assumed – leaving tasks and abandoning cleaning materials and tools in place. She knew from years ago that there would be no evacuation; Beckon Cove was where lesser-defensible estates sent their vulnerable innocents in time of conflict. Gather to the fortress, never flee from it except in defeat.

She followed Hunith as they made a quick way between the people, out to the bailey. It was windy. Big, thick clouds scudding ominously, the sun flashing out bright and hard only to be hidden and chilled the next moment.

Warriors lined the wall, gathered in groups below – the majority of them to the north of the gate, ignoring anyone else in a way that simultaneously frightened and reassured her. Some had weapons in hand, some not yet. Defenders, reinforcements for when those began falling wounded.

Hunith reached the open door of the bakehouse before Freya, bracing herself on the frame and leaning past a frightened young maid hesitating there, to speak to the baker.

"Queen says get to cover now," Hunith said, moving almost before she was finished, on to the laundry tucked in the inside corner of the wall.

Over her shoulder Freya saw the baker bustle both assistants out of the bakehouse, rushing toward the tower. So cover didn't mean the same thing, this time.

"What's different?" she asked Hunith, the moment the older woman had finished delivering the terse message to the laundry-girls. Maegden was first through the door, joining them in time for Freya's question and listening intently for Hunith's answer. "The messenger said – magic?"

Hunith glanced around, as if to give them some privileged information without being overheard. "They said there was a sorceress with the Saxons."

Freya's heart plummeted. That was a significant and indeterminate advantage for their enemies. And Beckon Cove's only defense for such warfare-

"Saxons! How should they come this far south!" Maegden exclaimed, keeping her voice pitched low the way Hunith did. She looked at both of them as if fully aware that they might each have reason to be glad because, "Merlin's not here."

"True," Hunith said, a bit grimly. "Maegden, start at the stable-end, will you? Everyone to Cover."

Freya heard it this time as the proper name for a specific place. "We're just hiding?" she asked, uncertain. Her limited experience hinted that house servants had provided the bulk of caring for wounded in some easily-accessed and fairly-comfortable tower chamber.

"We're holding," Hunith corrected. "As long as we can. The queen said they've sent for help…"

Freya exhaled with a bit of relief. Calling for armsmen from the rest of the kingdom, she assumed. Requesting reinforcements from the estates. A magic-user could bring supernatural forces to bear and equal ten or twenty or maybe fifty fighters personally, but powerful didn't mean infallible. The sorceress would need rest and sustenance just like anyone else.

A dull thud boomed across the bailey, and Freya jerked around – with everyone else – to stare toward the gate. Warriors crowded – arrows loosed – small casks of oil were passed along and men ran to bring torches to set it alight as an external barrier to the gate.

It was real. It was starting. Freya couldn't believe she'd woken that morning and spent so much time worrying for herself.

The worse things got today, the more Merlin would blame himself for being absent…

Hunith finished, "And hope help gets here in time."

 **A/N: Alrighty, here we are. It's something of a cliffie – it's going to be like that for a fair few chapters, I'm afraid…**


	14. Connections and Consequences

**Chapter 14: Connections and Consequences**

Gwaine was not actually part of the hierarchy of warriors in Beckon Cove. He could give no one orders – though neither did he have to take any – but no one really bothered to keep him informed of plans or strategy or movement, except Tythan, when he emerged from the horde of warriors defending the gate for a dipperful of water and a moment to catch his breath.

"We can handle this," the older man responded when Gwaine presented himself at the gate, ready to join the defense. "We've done it before."

And Gwaine as the stranger, might be the opposite of help.

"Take a turn around the wall?" Tythan suggested, wiping sweat on his sleeve and twitching like he needed to rejoin his men. "They're centering their attack here, and no one's seen anything of the witch since those blasts this morning…"

"Yeah, that makes me nervous, too," Gwaine agreed. And he might be better able to spot something abnormal in a magic way, than the other guards positioned to other points of the compass around the stronghold.

Turning to jog across the bailey and ascend to the top of the wall opposite the focus of the Saxon attention, Gwaine nearly tripped over his half-size shadow.

And the wall, if there was a secondary attack, was no place for a boy. Waiting reinforcement behind the wall was one thing – Gwaine hadn't even drawn his sword yet – but this would be different.

"Gareth," he said, catching the boy by the shoulders. "Go inside the tower, where they're taking the wounded. Make yourself useful there-"

"Carrying water or stirring soup?" The boy spoke scornfully, though his eyes were big and dark in a face drained of color for the sounds of battle and the fear of the situation. Gareth couldn't focus on Gwaine's face for flitting his gaze around the warriors swarming their gate in controlled defensive chaos.

"Make – yourself – useful," Gwaine repeated, dodging to catch the boy's eyes and nudging him bodily toward the tower, where two servants were carrying an uncooperatively-injured warrior up the stairs at a hustle. "Your time will come, little knight, I promise. All too soon, probably. Lesson One is obedience."

Gareth gave him a look that clearly told Gwaine what he thought of that, but relief lurked behind the mutinous reaction, and he took to his heels without another word.

Gwaine hustled, himself, across the bailey to the opposite side of the wall.

The wind was still high, and fitful, burning sun and fickle cloud-shadow and the noise of the conflict at the gates rose and fell with the uneasy sense that he was _needed_ elsewhere, but didn't know it. Or where.

He scanned the surrounding countryside to the horizon as he strode the wide arc of the western wall, shading his eyes to give his hand something to do, in the absence of a need for a drawn weapon. None of the posted watchmen addressed him, and he said nothing to them, either. Everyone was tense with that needed-elsewhere feeling, but another instinct raised hairs on Gwaine's neck and forearms.

Like being watched.

The rocky fall and jagged rise of land out to the sky and sinking sun struck Gwaine as greener, somehow, than he remembered, but if there were Saxon scouts or magical spies, he had no proof of them from his own five senses.

No one had seen anything of the witch, since those booming attacks that began the siege – fireballs, he understood; impressive and frightening, but not actually effective against the stone walls of the fortress. Perhaps Merlin had ensorcelled protection into Beckon Cove's more obvious defenses, or perhaps it had been an invitation of sorts to Caerleon's foremost sorcerer. Unanswered, but she might not know why; perhaps she was waiting for Merlin to show himself, but Gwaine had no confidence in the idea that she'd exhausted herself in the opening round of this contest.

That niggling sensation of observation wouldn't leave him. And suddenly he wondered if the blonde witch might recognize him, personally, the way he recognized her.

The walkway set down into the top of the wall was wide enough for two warriors to slip past each other easily. As he strode forward he shifted his shoulders to pass behind yet another watchman, a bearded man with his face-veil left hanging from the side of his turban.

Who tensed and hissed in reaction, looking outward, while Gwaine was still two paces away.

He flinched, twisting around to look – and saw nothing that would disturb the watchman. "What is it?"

"There," the fellow answered, lifting his hand to point. "See the smoke?"

Gwaine could make out a puff of gray-white, low and blending into the color of exposed rock, almost to the horizon, rising nearly transparent against the sky and the glare of the setting sun.

"That's Hanbury," the man added in shocked disbelief. "It's _burning_."

…..*….. …..*….. …..*….. …..*….. …..*…..

Morgana stepped carefully along the bank of the Rusk River, her steps slow because her body was weary and her reflexes sluggish. They'd reached the border late last night to make camp and it wasn't a comfortable camp and she envied Acollyn his ability to roll up in his blanket and sleep like a log in spite of her restlessness beside him, but it wasn't lack of sleep bothering her.

"Watch your step, my lady," Finna said quietly, from a watchful place behind her elbow, not quite between Morgana and the river.

Twice already she'd reached to steady Morgana, and a pair of guardsmen trailed them for just-in-case. Acollyn was not best pleased she wanted to walk by the river, in her condition, but he hadn't attempted to talk her out of it, which she appreciated. As short as her temper was. Knowing him, he was watching her covertly also, and he'd be first to her side if she slipped.

"How far is far enough," Morgana said tiredly, not really expecting an answer. "How long is long enough?"

"You must judge that for yourself," Finna answered. "But if you do not allow sufficient time for recuperation in every aspect of your being, the spell won't work, and you'll have to wait even longer before attempting it again."

Morgana sighed, and kicked a stone into the water down the grassy bank – she wasn't very good with necessary patience – and almost lost her balance doing it.

The messenger from Queen Annis had arrived nearly at noon, hardened and belligerent as most barbarians seemed to be, but also visibly fatigued from a strenuous journey. His horse, also.

 _Thank you for the warning, as it provides time to call upon our resources elsewhere. However, the presence of your sister-witch gives us pause, for our sake and hers. We have no one to answer her unique challenge, and cannot therefore regret any defensive tactics necessary for our protection._

Which meant that Morgana's warning had served to make her sister the target of every single warrior of Caerleon. Which was strategy and only sensible, but still.

 _However, if by chance you may reach Prince Merlin by your arts, he may hasten to return and serve as our defense against inimical magic, and the focus of our warriors may return to the Saxons accompanying Morgause._

She wasn't sure she'd rather have her sister facing just Merlin, rather than a horde of barbarian warriors. But at the very least, it might mean less bloodshed.

Morgana paused to face the river, and glanced over at Finna. "How do _you_ feel?"

Finna gave her a wide-eyed look, as if surprised to be asked. "I'll manage," she said, with a touch of kind familiarity. "Yours is the more difficult task and I would perform it for you if I could, but…"

"I know," Morgana sighed.

She'd been trying to reach Merlin telepathically all afternoon, but it was magic affected by distance as well as the initiator's strength and concentration. Even with Finna's magic supporting and stabilizing and projecting the message, Merlin was just too far to hear, if he was not expecting and focusing on receiving the connection.

Which meant, perhaps, that he could not reach Beckon Cove in time to defend it from Morgause – and her from any form of desperate assassination they might attempt.

It was a bit less taxing than scrying. It could be repeated more than once in a day, but it could not be sustained continuously, even if Merlin were in camp with her. Strength, and concentration. She could pass out trying too long; getting up to move about shifted focus and altered patterns of breathing and blood-flow and passed the time needed to restore the reserves of magic, so Finna said.

"If we don't reach him," Morgana said. "Either one will destroy the other – Beckon Cove, or my sister. And he would never forgive me, and I would never forgive myself…"

Finna hummed thoughtfully. "And maybe this sense of pressure is an obstacle to your success."

Morgana frowned at her. "What do you mean?'

"If you are destined to play a part in the saving of Beckon Cove, of anyone there, of your sister, then it shall be done," the druid-trained woman explained, with the simple assurance of belief. "If destruction is destined, however, then you must accept that you have done your best, but it was out of your power to affect. Either you will, or you won't."

Morgana sighed, feeling the soreness in her neck begin to creep upward into her skull. She had little tolerance of Finna's description of destiny as a thing immutable but also largely indecipherable. Events _set_ in the future, but since no one knew anything, they must act to the best of their ability, and accept the result whether good or bad. It was a druid tenet, she understood.

She wasn't a druid, and never would be. She wanted to believe she was making a difference. That it meant a quantifiable advantage to her friends when she acted, and her actions did not solely result in a forming of her character.

Although, Finna's philosophy did result in an unusual serenity that Morgana struggled to imitate, so maybe the older woman was right…

"I would like to try again," Morgana decided, turning her steps back toward camp, though she kept herself from _hurrying_ with an effort. "Perhaps your advice will help."

Finna made a noise of agreement, and followed.

She would never argue with Morgana, and not only because her position as tutor was still subservient to Acollyn and Morgana as her employers. She never seemed to categorize Morgana's arguments as wrong – only flawed, and therefore she could present a better way of considering any given topic of conversation or magic. Sometimes it was frustrating, when Morgana really wanted to _argue_ – but maybe that was an immature inclination anyway, and inappropriate for a lady of her status. Acollyn would rarely argue either, and his calm made her feel more reasonable whenever they discussed something. She wanted him to be pleased with her intelligence and compassion, more than with her wit and generosity, because there was a difference, and when she was with him, she saw it more clearly.

And she was probably right about him keeping an eye on her; no sooner had they glimpsed the black-and-white tents of Trevena's company, than he appeared from the trees and fell in step beside her.

"You weren't gone very long," he observed.

She didn't answer, only reached down to take his hand in hers, feeling the metal edge of his vambrace on the heel of her hand. He was more than she deserved, more than she'd ever had imagination to expect.

"I wish," she said deliberately, "My sister could get to know you."

He squeezed her hand, though she'd never tried to explain to him what her sister seemed to believe concerning men, and so he could not understand the full meaning of her wish. Lightly he said, "Maybe someday."

Maybe someday. Someday when there was another reason for Morgause to be persuaded to visit Trevena – not just a brother chosen for her by Morgana, but maybe the arrival of another blood relative they could share. A little niece or nephew. Sometimes the thought made her snappish; sometimes it made her shiver; sometimes it made her smile. Acollyn never seemed to pay much attention to measuring the span of her waist in an critical way, to see if it was beginning to swell, and Morgana herself was certainly in no hurry to catch and carry his child, but… someday.

When they reached the rug laid on the ground before the tent she shared with Acollyn, she and Finna arranged themselves in seated positions facing each other. She was a little surprised when Acollyn dropped down cross-legged just next to her.

"If I can help in any way," he said, in answer to her questioning frown.

Finna smiled, and Morgana shrugged. If anyone could help her keep calm – though her focus would have to shut out his honey-brown eyes and soft scruff of golden-brown beard, especially regarding the thought of babes…

Morgana took a deep breath, filled her lungs though it wasn't her _voice_ she would use, and-

 _Merlin!_

Breathe, breathe… Wait, and listen, and… nothing.

Exhale, inhale.

 _Merlin!_

No answer.

 _There is trouble! Your home is attacked! Your family threatened! My sister seeks your wife to kill her! Can you hear me? This is Morgana! Merlin!_

 _Speak again, witch, slowly and more clearly. What is your business with Merlin?_

She twitched with surprise, having never heard another voice except Finna's in her head, and this was – most definitely not Merlin.

 _Who are you?_ she asked warily. Just because someone else had heard her calling did not mean he was a friend to Merlin, or to her. _What is your name, and why do you care about Merlin?_

 _I am Kilgarrah. One day Merlin will be my lord. The message again, if you please, witch._

Something told her it wasn't some casual contact with a random citizen of Caerleon with magic who'd overheard, and was curious. Someday Merlin will be my… oh. Oh, hells, it was the…

"Dragon," Morgana said aloud, concentration wavering slightly to hear Finna's gasp, feel the tightening of the older woman's fingers and focus.

Acollyn said – sounding far away – "Did she say dragon?"

 _What of Merlin's family and home? What of his wife?_ The power and the demand yanked both energy and effort from her, seizing answers rather than waiting to receive them.

 _My sister. Morgause. A sorceress. Revenge on Merlin – he blocked her conquest of Camelot – she'll kill his wife._

 _His wife_ … the voice ruminated. _His mate… Show me_.

The demand stabbed into her mind and memories welled up involuntarily - All the things I see in her, strength and sweetness and generosity, she doesn't see in herself… I think she's beautiful… I love her – their hands joined as they entered Trevena's receiving chamber as though neither ever wanted to stop touching the other – Merlin has had my heart from the day we met – the glimpse she'd had of them at her wedding feast, the best of friends and truest of lovers as they laughed together, he looking down with fond possessiveness, she glancing up with shy adoration and both of them tucking their bodies together unconsciously, side by side on the bench at the banquet-table and-

Morgana gasped for breath and swayed as she was abruptly released.

 _We will handle this_. The dragon's voice rumbled through her skull, making her teeth vibrate and her eyes water. And then the presence was gone and she was alone inside herself, feeling for one instant as if she had been abandoned within the vast ruins of a strange castle-

"Gently, gently!" Finna's voice urged.

Acollyn's arms were strong and steady around her, and she rested against him, blinking up with a tremulous smile as exhaustion tugged at her, a subtle undercurrent she was done fighting.

"I did it," she said simply.

"You reached him with the message?" Acollyn confirmed, taking her answer from her eyes and smiling with a pride that was clear and sweet. "Well done, my lady." From him it was an endearment, not an honorific, and the intimacy and approval of his tone carried her away to coveted slumber.

…..*….. …..*….. …..*….. …..*….. …..*…..

Balinor had decided to ignore Kilgarrah as much as possible that day. After his unsought and unexplained bit of prophecy that had thrown the other three into such turmoil the previous day, Balinor had – for the druid boy's peace of mind as much as his son's – tried to get the scaly old prognosticator to elaborate. All he got was some grumbling about ivy on oak trees.

He rather suspected that Kilgarrah was not sure himself, and could not explain what he'd said, though Balinor believed the dragon did feel obligated to pass along whatever warning he'd seen or felt, unclear as it was. Dragons simply did not care to understand the human viewpoint, so affected by emotion; Balinor did not think Kilgarrah had been intentionally cruel to any of the three younger men.

As a matter of course, Balinor took the lead; he knew the foothills and the best route in any direction, knew when to go over or around.

Only once did the Pendragon try to catch him up and travel apace. They only discussed their plans – timing and weather – and Balinor expected he was looking for the best time and place to excuse himself home to his own kingdom. Either Merlin hadn't offered to go with him yet, or he'd thought better of making the suggestion.

Fine with Balinor; the last thing he wanted to see was his son crossing the border into magic-hating Camelot. He'd not go there himself, and if the awkwardness of his refusal made Merlin hesitate, so much the better.

On second consideration, Uther's son did not surprise Balinor so much. He might have expected the Pendragon heir to be raised to hate and fear fanatically – but it was true that Uther was clever and canny and capricious, too, and might have instilled such characteristics in his son. Arthur appeared to take the presence and occasional use of magic in stride; it seemed he'd convinced Merlin anyway that his overtures of friendship in addition to proposal for alliance, was sincere.

Balinor's fault, that. Hunith was delightfully open and he an obvious beneficiary of her swift and simple trust; given that she had the sole raising of their son, it was no surprise that he could be taken in, even by the son of a sworn enemy. Twice over, too. Caerleon, and magic. And hadn't the barbarians taught him any better?

Merlin had resisted trusting Kilgarrah, and the times when he'd turned his gelding over to Mordred and strode forward to join Balinor in the lead, he'd seemed - as when they'd first met the previous day – cautious. Willing to connect, but at the same time, wary. Prince Arthur must be very good, to have him so convinced. Merlin had given a light-hearted version of his time spent in Camelot – ridiculously unbelievable, and he and Pendragon had both snickered at Mordred's incredulity.

Balinor couldn't help wondering what was the truth. Perhaps if and when he met Geart's son Gwaine again, he could ask…

Mordred, though, remained to the rear all day. Balinor had finished the healing spell and his arm should have been whole and strong, but perhaps it simply wasn't in his nature to voluntarily take a position even beside a leader, but only to follow. Perhaps his reticence was due to his inferior age and the still-unfamiliar idea of equality with grown men.

Balinor's glances backward told him that if the boy was naturally cheerful and talkative, he'd been greatly affected by some part of his recent trials. He seemed watchful of both princes, though for their part, neither turned the boy a cold shoulder by any level of scrutiny – though of course Balinor could not watch over his shoulder with any constancy.

He couldn't remember the last time he was in company with three individuals with such complicated connections. It was fascinating at times – excessively diverting to consider, if he needed something to occupy his thoughts as they traveled. It was sometimes overwhelming, when he was accustomed to the solitude of years.

The sun hovered over the western horizon, dipping down toward the sea at the coast some dozens of leagues still distant. They came through a stretch of forest spread below and before the last and gentlest of foothills, to find that Kilgarrah – flying high and distant, to Balinor's ignored sense of his inhuman kin – had landed here in their path.

He did not appear to be waiting for them, however.

Merlin, who'd been tramping along at Balinor's side, adding Gwaine's details to the fantastical story of his time in Camelot that spring in short sentences, spaced generously and comfortably over nearly an hour. He paused, seeing Kilgarrah's back and the long tail curled but twitching restively, and Balinor continued on alone, obviously and willingly the liaison between the dragon and other men.

The very definition of a dragonlord, after all.

"Kilgarrah," he said aloud, and couldn't tell that the dragon heard him. He was adept at ignoring whatever and whoever and whenever he chose, so Balinor moved around where he could see Kilgarrah's face, and repeated his name internally.

A ripple of reaction passed beneath the scales, revealing the dragon's level of preoccupation – though of course his senses would have tracked them and their horses, dismissing them as no threat.

It was his response that made Balinor twitch.

"She'll kill his wife."

Rumbled slowly and absently, focus clearly leagues away, but Kilgarrah was never distracted. Whatever held his attention, it was important in a way Balinor rarely understood. Usually because the dragon didn't explain.

"Who?" he demanded. "Whose wife?" Small consolation now, Kilgarrah's determined indifference to Hunith; it was not Balinor's wife the dragon referred to.

"Who's going to kill whose wife?" Merlin said behind him, almost at the same time, but his tone was bewildered curiosity, without the intensity Balinor felt.

 _Kilgarrah_ , he growled, and it was nearly a command.

" _His wife_ ," Kilgarrah said, speaking in both ways at once with the sensation of a disconcerting echo. " _His mate_."

That word. That _word_. It was more than wife. More than spouse, more than vows, more than spoken more than _meant_. It was a bond.

It implied progeny.

Balinor whirled around, his movement startling Merlin – who'd been approaching at a slower, more casual pace – into an abrupt halt, eyes flaring wide and wary, right hand tossed lightly up and caught halfway between magic and the hilt of his sword. And once again, Balinor saw his son as he'd first seen him – a stranger, a warrior. A prince, and therefore-

"Do you have a wife?" Balinor demanded, voice throaty with strain. "Have they married you to someone?"

The answer was all over Merlin's face. _Yes_. Along with a great deal of _I don't understand_ , moving toward _She's going to kill his wife_ …

Balinor spun back to the dragon, already moving to join with him, climb to a perch on his neck. _Tell me_ , he demanded, making it a command in the language they shared.

Kilgarrah couldn't refuse, but he answered by communicating with Balinor the contact that had alerted him and troubled him enough to bring him down to land.

 _Your home is attacked! Your family threatened! A sorceress – revenge – she'll kill his wife!_

The message meant for Merlin, from some female ally calling for his aid, and at their leisurely pace, they might not have entered range of hearing til the morrow. At another time it might have been interesting to see when Merlin caught the message, as an external indication of his own power, but now-

A sorceress, and revenge. That made him think of Nimueh, mysterious and mercurial with the weight of hundreds behind her. Dangerous, unpredictable-

"Wait – why do you ask? What is going on, what's he saying?"

His son. His _son_ , a tiny helpless bundle in Hunith's arms, arms waving and fingers grasping as if he did not know it himself, being too young, searching for a the tip of a father's finger to hold, to secure him in a new and dangerous world. Bright curious eyes and knobby elbows leaning over a desk and someone else answering, demonstrating, feeling pride at the boy's wonder and pride at accomplishment of successful imitation. Strong hands and awkward bones as he swung and spun through a fighter's stances and someone else behind him feeling sharp shoulder-blades against his own body, reaching to correct and support the training.

Someone else discussing and debating and guiding, as he began to think about the wider issues of the world.

Someone else giving instruction and receiving the submissive nod of obedience, chosen rather than forced.

And none of it belonged to Balinor. He had a few short, contentious, hopeful moments with this extraordinary gift and he was terrified that fate would rip it from his hands before he could do more than begin to comprehend, to enjoy and anticipate, just like before – that he wouldn't be allowed to keep this love, this happiness.

"Tell me," Merlin growled, stalking toward him. Fingers fisted, back straight, chin down like he was spoiling for a fight – like the cousins Balinor remembered. Like himself.

 _So_ like himself. Would this girl be Merlin's one and only, as Hunith was his? If she already carried Merlin's child, it would be a boy – his heir – and if anything happened to her, to them, would Merlin would live the rest of his life solitary?

Balinor realized - he had a daughter, too. If his son had a son he didn't even know about yet, Balinor could not allow him to be separated from his family. Not like when he'd lost Hunith and Merlin, and death would not allow for any reunion in this life… Couldn't let Merlin struggle with the question of passing on the dragonlord bond and heritage, someday, if love was lost…

He couldn't let Merlin go and face and fight. Couldn't tell him what Kilgarrah had revealed. Merlin had no power to command information from either of them.

Balinor leaped up Kilgarrah's forearm, straddling the great scaly neck with careful but practiced ease. _Go! We will handle this_.

"No! You – wait!" Merlin shouted, running a few steps like he could physically catch them and hold them til they satisfied his questions.

Kilgarrah's muscles bunched and he sprang upward several body-lengths at once, seeking and finding the lowest air currents, wings scooping wind powerfully and rhythmically, and gathering momentum.

 _Balinor!_ Merlin's voice roared into his mind, and he smiled to himself in pride and victory.

His son would be left safely out of it. And finally, _finally_ , Balinor could fight for something he believed in. Finally he would be allowed to advance and protect, rather than retreating to hide from catastrophic failure.

"Let's go," he repeated to Kilgarrah, and they shot forward through the sky.

…..*….. …..*….. …..*….. …..*….. …..*…..

Merlin was furious enough to sprint a few steps like he could actually catch the pair taking flight. "No! You – wait!"

He could not believe it. He could not _believe_ it.

 _Balinor!_ he demanded.

And was ignored. His vision narrowed to follow them, winging upward smaller and smaller and for a moment his body was weightless as if he might take flight to pursue them, but-

The weight of a hand on his shoulder dragged him back to his body, vibrating with tension and leaning forward over his toes. He blinked at Arthur, who wore a wary expression.

"What's the matter? Are you all right? Where did they go?"

 _Do you have a wife._

 _She'll kill…_

Who, she? The only person he knew that hated him enough for murder, that hated him and was capable of threatening Freya's life in Beckon Cove-

"Morgause," Merlin said, feeling like someone had just stabbed into his chest with a blade of white-hot light, numbing and blinding and ripping him open to empty everything out onto the ground.

Arthur dropped his hand, turning to look south though they weren't in Caerleon proper yet, and more than a full day's hard ride from the capital. "Are you sure?"

"No," Merlin spat. The stabbing hole in his chest throbbed with heat. "I'm not sure of _anything_ with those two."

"He said, she'll kill his wife – you think Morgause has designs on Freya's life?"

"The first I've heard of it, but I wouldn't be surprised." Merlin rubbed both eyes with the thumb and fingers of one hand and swore aloud. "Think maybe she was just waiting somewhere for me to leave?" Each beat of his heart thrust pain throughout his chest, enough energy to fight a dozen men immediately – and he could do nothing with it, he was too far away. Anything could happen, and he could do nothing.

"I think Morgana's been trying to locate her since this spring," Arthur ventured. "I don't know that she's had any luck… but how could the dragon know such a thing about Morgause and Freya?"

Merlin shuddered involuntarily, drawing Arthur's attention – and concern, which he rejected immediately and violently. Swinging about, he gestured at Mordred, who waited uncertainly in the saddle of Merlin's gelding, beside Arthur's mount, trailing reins and staying put, well-trained to patience.

"How could he know such a thing about Mordred, and you?" he snapped. "Maybe it amuses him to panic us and watch us react, but – damn it all, I can't just ignore that there might be some truth there!"

He'd been gone the better part of a week from Beckon Cove. There was no way of knowing exactly what had sparked the dragon's attention moments ago – damn him – but if Morgause had been waiting to make some move on Freya til he left, there was no way of guessing-

Wait, though. The dragon had phrased it like it hadn't happened yet. She _will_ kill…

So it hadn't happened yet.

Merlin focused on Mordred again, aware that they were both watching him, and gave the druid boy a sardonic grin. "Keep the gelding," he said. "I'm sorry I couldn't see you to a new home, but you're welcome in Beckon Cove anytime. And if you ever hurt Arthur Pendragon, I will dismember you. Slowly."

Mordred was white, but nodded.

Arthur frowned, saying, "What are you going to-"

Merlin ignored him, focusing as best he could on the room in Beckon Cove he knew best. " _Bedyrne me_!" His own bedchamber - the smell, the feel of the air, the navigation of the furnishings that was so familiar it was instinctive – added to the scent of his wife, how soft she felt and the way her breathing fit patterns he recognized and had the power to change- " _Astyrne me thaneon_ -"

"No!" He heard Mordred's voice echoing as if from a distance. "No, don't let him! Grab him!"

He couldn't take a step away from interference, any shift and the spell wouldn't-

Arthur's muscular body crashed into him, arms wrapping round him and he fought reactively for his freedom, twisting and lunging and striking out – but it brought him back to the present, anchoring him in the forest with the other two.

"What the hell?" Arthur demanded, irritated. He let Merlin break his hold, but stepped to follow Merlin's retreat, reaching for him again.

Merlin gathered and positioned himself to slug the other prince in the face.

"Emrys, don't!" Mordred called, urgent and unhappy. "Please. That spell is so dangerous. You shouldn't risk it."

Arthur was glaring now, too, looking ready to tackle Merlin to keep him from risking himself. Merlin was breathing hard through his nostrils, furious again that the other prince would dare stop him. Balinor wouldn't allow him to come, Arthur would force him to stay, and they had no right. Freya was his wife, his heart.

"If you were about to try something stupidly powerful, save it," Arthur said shortly. "We can pick up the pace. Get there tomorrow night, maybe, don't you think? And you'll be better able to fight her then, won't you?"

"Your father and the dragon," Mordred spoke up. "They'll be there before too long, won't they? They can protect your wife."

If the king let them. If the warriors of Caerleon didn't turn on the dragon out of fear. If they believed Balinor – Morgause had attacked Uther with a dark enchantment before openly sending Cenred's soldiers. She didn't have troops now, did she? Could she convince Cenred to pay more mercenaries to attack Caerleon this fall like they'd attacked Camelot this spring? And if she didn't have fighters, what was her plan?

Pain knifed through him at the thought that Freya might again suffer some sort of curse – and this time, because of him.

"Go back to Camelot," he said to Arthur, and spun on his heel to start for Beckon Cove.

It was hard to hold himself to a pace he could sustain til it was too dark for him to see his path anymore. His blood pounded in his ears and his breath slammed into his lungs in a single step, squeezed out again over two more steps. His sword thudded against his spine from its place down his back and his feet wanted to quicken, muscles tightening with his need to go faster, instinct claiming that _speed_ would get him there sooner…

Moments only, til he realized the other two a-horseback were both following him. Maybe they thought he'd get out of sight and try the traveling spell again.

That would've been a good idea, too.

But, fine. They could come to Beckon Cove, he supposed. If they could keep up.

 **A/N: Sorry this is late, I was moving this week.** _ **So**_ **busy. And then there was a gap between internet access, my old place to my new one. And then my computer crashed and I lost an entire section which took another day to redo…**


	15. Blood on the Sword

**Chapter 15: Blood on the Sword**

Arthur watched Merlin pace the edge of firelight, looking outward, looking south, though there wasn't much visible beyond the trunks and leaves reflecting the subtle glow of their cookfire.

"Isn't he exhausted?" Mordred murmured, moving closer to Arthur and adjusting the fit of Arthur's borrowed glove on his sword-hand.

Too dark to travel further, and they'd had to argue Merlin into stopping. Maybe he didn't need the rest, but his pace had been worrying relentless as the sun set and twilight passed and the stars woke and their bellies demanded dinner.

Physical hunger was satisfied now, but no one was particularly sleepy. It put Arthur on edge to watch Merlin pace and burn with ineffective frustration, so he'd proposed giving Mordred a lesson in using the second-rate weapon he'd been allowed to carry with the bandits. It was a way of stating to all of them at once, how he'd determined to trust Mordred until it was _proven_ to him otherwise that he shouldn't. And Mordred had tried to settle his nerves and learn, and Merlin had generally ignored them – maybe because he trusted his magic, or maybe because he was also deliberately attempting to ignore the dragon's words on the subject of their young companion, at any rate.

"He should be," Arthur responded in a similar tone. "But… I have a girl, in Camelot. Someday I want to make her my queen. And if I suspected she was in danger, right now – and I couldn't be there, and I had only to rely on my men to protect her and maybe I wasn't sure they were going to be _able_ to, for some reason…"

Mordred looked back at him, beginning to comprehend, even as young as he was. "There was a girl, in the druid camp. She was my best friend. I guess if I thought someone was going to hurt her…"

Maybe a first love, Arthur guessed, only Mordred wasn't mature enough to look back and call it that with nostalgic fondness. And maybe he'd forget her, and maybe he'd try to find her, and maybe their paths would cross coincidentally years from now…

"Isn't there anything you can say?" Mordred added, after a moment. He still spoke haltingly, as if worried he'd give offense by addressing Arthur. Because Arthur was a prince, or because Mordred's upbringing had not encouraged him to self-confidence at all, or because of that damn cryptic prophecy, Arthur couldn't tell. "If he's going to fight a witch tomorrow…"

Arthur made a thoughtful noise, watching Merlin move with restless energy, mentally comparing his memories from earlier that spring. What Merlin had done, opening portals around the chain at his neck meant to block his magic, and that after other magics and the battle with Cenred's mercenaries that had injured the younger prince physically – how did that compare to today's travel and mental stresses?

"He's got incredible reserves of endurance," he commented, and something else struck him. He shifted to face Mordred more than Merlin. "Can I ask you something? Earlier when you wanted him stopped from doing the spell to travel-" And Mordred had explained, in terse unhappy sentences, as they guided the horses to follow the determined sorcerer at a steady swift jog, about the magic and its inherent risks. "You called him Emrys."

Mordred's eyes didn't shift away from Merlin, but his fingers toyed with the hilt of his sword, enchanted by Merlin to practice dullness when they first drew to begin this lesson.

"He didn't correct you. Didn't deny the name. He responded," Arthur said.

Mordred darted him a look, too quick for him to read, but there was a wariness that reminded him, he was the Pendragon prince of Camelot speaking to a druid.

"I've heard the name before," Arthur told him, and the boy struggled to retain his mask of impassivity; surprise slipped through. "My court physician Gaius used to be a magic-user. He says there are reasons to believe Merlin might be this figure of prophecy, though Merlin himself resists knowledge and title, both. But-" he paused to be sure he had the boy's attention. "What made _you_ call him that?"

"The sword," Mordred said. "Your sword, I mean."

Arthur lifted his hand slightly, having dropped his own temporarily-dulled weapon to his side. He'd told Mordred about it in the bandit-camp, hoping to persuade the druid boy that they weren't enemies and might be allies, because he carried a sword made and given him by a sorcerer-friend.

"What, did he sign his work somehow?" he asked curiously. Some metal-workers did just that, engrave a tiny mark somewhere or incorporate some unique element of design that made their work recognizable.

"Not exactly," Mordred said, still fiddling with his own hilt. "It's just… been a very long time since someone _made_ an artifact like that. Since someone was able to make an artifact like that. Only someone powerful in a rare way could do it. Mostly we just use the relics left us by our ancestors, anymore…"

Arthur considered Merlin again, as the other prince reached an edge of firelight and spun about to stalk the other direction. Before too long, his boots would wear through grass and leaf and moss and expose the earth beneath. "Maybe we ought to have let him take his chances with that spell, then."

A wrinkle appeared between the boy's black brows. "No… I was taught, that sort of magic crosses the line of what's allow and what's forbidden on principle. Most magic doesn't… accomplish the impossible, it only… speeds up the process. Moving objects, or healing wounds, lighting fires and heating things up or cooling them down. All of that can be done naturally, if more slowly and with difficulty and uncertainty. But when you open a portal from one place in this world to another, without care or concern for where and how you're doing it…"

"Ah," Arthur said, knowing that his understanding only began to grasp the reality.

They'd had to travel to a select place in the Valley of the Fallen Kings where the portals could be opened – and then it was, to another realm to send the creatures home. He could see where it might border on immoral to force such immediate relocation – he'd been surprised to learn how many magic-users would classify some magic as possible, but not advisable. Guidelines and safeguards, as Merlin had said, not anything-goes melee rules.

But it was also the sort of judgment a prince might make – when to sacrifice a principle to save a larger concern. Maybe there would be no discernible consequence, and his wife and kingdom would be saved – but maybe he'd unsettle some balance that would result in some catastrophe, maybe hurting or crippling or losing himself in the process, and still make no difference in the conflict when he arrived.

Did the success of the outcome justify the measures employed?

Some part of him that kept subconscious track of his surroundings alerted to the fact that Merlin's prowling footsteps had stopped, and he looked over the campfire to see Merlin watching them with predatory motionlessness, a subtle ferocity devoid of humor that made Arthur uneasy.

He'd seen Merlin frustrated, exasperated, sarcastic, stoic, determined. He'd never seen _this_ , though, a fury that so isolated, Merlin had made everyone else a target, including Arthur.

"Standing about and chatting, are we?" Merlin said, and it was almost a sneer. "Is that the way they train in Camelot? Right lot of cabbage-heads, if you ask me."

Arthur made a decision, and a gesture of deliberately provocative invitation. "Come on, then, show me how it's done where you come from. Now that you can't blame your loss on magical jewelry."

The fire banked low in Merlin's eyes blazed up suddenly and eagerly, and he reached to shrug his own sword free of the scabbard sewn down the back of his breastplate. His grin was fierce anticipation as he passed the dulling spell along the edges of his weapon.

Arthur motioned for Mordred to keep his distance, spinning his sword at his side and settling his stance in preparation. Merlin didn't hesitate, but stepped to him swiftly in a series of smooth, random attacks, firm but not full strength behind them.

He knew they were both weary, and distracted, but the differences to the morning they'd crossed blades on Camelot's field were marked. The young prince of Caerleon, magic in Camelot, captive and hostage, had held himself to a neat and passionless defense as Arthur had tested, had _pressed_ to find weaknesses and vulnerabilities. He'd almost bested Merlin that morning on the basis of their level of skill, and knew that his friend had used magic to disarm him, before he'd tackled the other to the grass.

This night, though… this night might have been dangerous, without the spell blunting cutting edges. Darkness and hot firelight, angular shadows and ignited flashing of eyes and teeth and perhaps if Arthur had reason to reach past skill and strength to the depths of rage-driven urgency, he might have bested Merlin again. His shoulder was healed and for every step Merlin had taken afoot, he'd been resting in his saddle. But Merlin was fast, and his blood was up and he was nearly unpredictable because he wasn't thinking and considering and planning his moves.

Arthur gave way – stumbled over some bit of their baggage – ducked a swing and the bits of a bark that flew when Merlin's blade struck a tree. And didn't bite into the wood and stick, dulled as the weapons were.

Often enough, this was how Arthur alleviated frustration. When a problem couldn't be attacked and defeated – like the state of his father's health, or the fact of Morgana's magic and character, or the anticipated obstacles of courting Guinevere – it helped to choose a surrogate knight or several, or a straw figure, to face in a mock-battle. And batter away at his opponents til his muscles burned and his limbs trembled and the emotions were spent and the recovery of energy was the recovery of equanimity, a clear and level head with which to approach the actual problem once again.

Merlin was extremely frustrated.

And he was using magic. Arthur wasn't sure that Merlin was completely conscious of it, either, when his blows began to feel like Elyan with his hammer and all his might, and blue eyes flashed again and again with gold magic.

"Oh, be careful!" Mordred called out, involuntarily and anxious.

And Arthur's foot slipped on the ground – and his hand slipped on the hilt of his sword – and he had to twist his head instinctively away from the possibility that his block might not hold, and Merlin's blade-

Dulled, though, remember, dulled with magic-

Might bite into the side of his neck, as he was trapped by the tree behind him and the branch beside him…

A tremor passed through their blades, joined near the crosspieces, and through the swift burning breaths and the crawl of sweat down his temple, he heard Merlin's panting and felt him trembling, too.

Arthur dared to turn his head to meet his friend's eyes again, reflecting firelight from the reflection on their blades, inches away from both of them.

He could have kicked out to unbalance Merlin and ducked the reactive swing and kept fighting, to better deny who was winner and who was loser this time. But his purpose wasn't to _win_ , to force Merlin's acknowledgement of his superiority. His friend was on the very point of losing whatever control he'd held himself to, since they'd stopped him using magic to get to Caerleon immediately, and Arthur meant to expend that emotion, not provoke it further.

"Merlin," he said, and he could hear in his own voice the strain of holding the other blade at a distance from his throat, with his friend's weight bearing it down. " _Merlin_."

The sorcerer-prince blinked, and the barbarian-warrior receded from his eyes, the glaring scowl from his expression.

Arthur added in a low, private tone, "I am not your enemy."

Of course Merlin knew that. But Arthur had essentially volunteered to stand substitute and encourage his friend to unleash aggression and rage.

Maybe Merlin was not used to such release, the way Arthur was. His fingers sprang away from the hilt of his sword, dropping it to the ground just next to Arthur's foot. He took an unsteady step back, eyes riveted to the blade that sagged in Arthur's grip – the very sword he'd forged and gifted.

Then his eyes met Arthur's, hollow with desolation and his face gaunt in the firelight.

"I'm sorry," he said hoarsely. "I… don't know what…"

"It's all right," Arthur told him, keeping his own voice even with an effort. "I'm _glad_ I'm not your enemy."

Merlin groaned and pitched forward against the tree behind Arthur, catching his face on his forearm. Arthur let his knees bend a little deeper, sliding down the rough bark so his back against the trunk would support his weight more than the muscles of his legs.

"I don't know what to think anymore," Merlin whispered beneath his bracer. "Everything is so complicated, and so enormously important…"

"I know," Arthur said.

"Morgause wants to kill Freya, but she's Morgana's sister and _far_ from here where I can't reach either. My father hates you and wants to protect Freya but he won't _listen_ to me and the dragon – who probably doesn't want us to be friends either – is supposed to be my kin, but he says a boy who should be my friend is going to kill you…"

And magic was evil but Merlin wasn't. And all sorcerers were to be executed, but not hostages of foreign royalty. And Morgana had magic and conspired to have Camelot sacked, only she was sorry… And his father never listened to him either, before or after his enchanted illness.

Arthur repeated tiredly, "I know."

Merlin shifted his weight and made a small sarcastic-whiny sound.

"Don't try to look too far ahead," Arthur offered, after a moment. "Don't try to anticipate eventualities for every choice and alternative and their many and possible consequences. Focus on what you can control, and the best choice you can make, right now. And when things change – tomorrow, when we reach your city – there will be more within your control. More choices to make."

Merlin didn't lift his head. "I haven't been good company… I've been making things harder for you. And for Mordred. Haven't I."

Arthur turned his head to look at Mordred, who'd crouched at the base of a tree not far, his face relaxed but watchful, now that they'd quit sparring. "We're all exhausted," he said. "And confused by what the dragon said, and uncertain what the future will bring. Come on. Let's just get some sleep."

Merlin sighed, deep and soft, a sound that doubted his ability to find rest, but his surrender to the suggestion to try. He pushed upright, turning to face Mordred and the camp properly. "This I can do," he said. "Make each of us and this camp safe."

He spoke the language of his spells, bending to touch Arthur's shoulder and reclaim his sword at the same time. Then stepping near Mordred – who ducked his head timidly but didn't flinch at all – to ruffle his fingers through the boy's unkempt hair, then addressed more magic to the air around them. Then, without saying another word, he headed for his bedroll.

Mordred reached for his blanket, scooting to a prone position beside his own sheathed sword and belt. His gaze on Arthur was expressionless, as was his habit, but it seemed to Arthur that he watched from curiosity – did a Pendragon of Camelot feel safer when surrounded by the magic of Caerleon?

Arthur gave Mordred a half-smile, straightening with an effort to cross to his own blanket, still rolled by his saddle for a pillow near Shadow's hooves. "At least we don't have to take turns at watch tonight."

Mordred almost smiled.

Arthur decided to count the night a success.

…..*….. …..*….. …..*….. …..*….. …..*…..

Balinor watched their progress to one side of Kilgarrah's neck or the other with more interest than he might have done flying high enough over any other part of the landscape to escape notice, themselves.

This was Caerleon. One day, if all went according to plan, his son would rule.

There was a satisfaction in the thought that he ached to be able to rub in Uther Pendragon's face… except for the recollection that their sons were friends. Potential allies. Balinor resisted that eventuality as an unpleasant hitch to be dealt with later.

Now he was part of the plan to put his son on a throne. He hoped the fact that Merlin had come looking meant that Balinor would be allowed and maybe welcomed to a place in Merlin's life – maybe even officially, if he was lucky. He was sure he could come to terms with the current king – a thorough barbarian, if he remembered correctly. Surely this king couldn't support Merlin's illogical friendship with Pendragon any more than Uther did.

More than once his anticipation tried to generate images of Hunith. What she looked like, now. How she moved, how she sounded, what she thought. She hadn't married another… was that reason enough for him to hope? He himself would never consider another woman, but he _wanted_ her. He wanted not to be alone anymore, surprisingly enough, but he wanted _her_.

What did she want? What would she say, what would she do? Would there be anger there, or indifference? He didn't suppose he could presume to sweep her up in his arms-

He longed to sweep her up in his arms…

No. Hells, what was he thinking? No distractions, it was _Merlin's_ wife he should focus on, and her safety and thwarting the witch's threat, before he could qualify for the reward of a reunion with his own wife. It was _her_ daughter he would be saving, as well.

 _What do we know of the witch?_ he asked Kilgarrah.

 _Vengeful._

Aren't they all? Balinor thought with an internal sigh. _Why though against Merlin?_

 _She it was who sought to take Camelot during his incarceration there. And he defended the citadel and prevented her triumph and her allies deserted her._

He defended the citadel. Balinor pressed his lips together, shaking his head as he had to hear it the first time, half-disbelieving the tale as fantasy to amuse and cheer the druid boy. That was still his fault, though, for not being there to teach Merlin any better. Defending his enemies against his kin.

 _We should be able to reason with her?_ he questioned. _She's magic, after all. Like us, like Merlin. We should negotiate, offer some recompense for Merlin's mistake?_

Silence. The air was chilling, as the warmth of the sun followed its light past the horizon and the ground far below disappeared into darkness. The fortress-capital shouldn't be hard to find, though, there would be watchfires, at least.

 _Kilgarrah?_

 _Reason and negotiation are meaningless concepts, in the face of revenge._

Balinor shifted in his less-than-comfortable seat. Well, then. He supposed if he got a shot at Uther, he wouldn't want apologies or explanations of Uther's choices and actions, he wouldn't want compromise and repayment. How could there be, for defeat and abandonment and disloyalty and loss? Still, he resolved to watch for an opportunity to speak to the woman rather than attack.

 _What are her tactics? her abilities?_

 _Subterfuge. Curses. Manipulation. Nearly as formidable as Nimueh, I would judge._

Balinor wondered how well Kilgarrah knew this one, whether he'd seen her or had only gathered information from the female who'd sent the intercepted warning. Nimueh had been intimidating, but she'd done battle magic for Uther. Of course, this witch could not threaten Kilgarrah, but if she preferred subtlety and ambush to open violence, that would give them more time to get there. It would also make her attack that much harder to identify and counter…

 _So we make our landing near the stronghold_ , Balinor suggested. At this time of night and without being able to give any kind of notice to the inhabitants, they could expect to be met with a defensive attack themselves, armed rather than open-armed greeting, descending unexpected on a king's fortress. _Tomorrow morning take a scouting flight, maybe let them see us, before landing to offer our aid._

Kilgarrah exuded reluctance and resistance, and Balinor guessed it was the last idea, or maybe the last phrase. The dragon would not want to be tied to a human's expectations or demands; Balinor sympathized. But this was Merlin's home – and Hunith's – and he couldn't afford to offend the rulers and commanders by acting as a sovereign power within their territory.

Now, if they clearly needed help in whatever altercation the witch initiated…

 _How far, can you tell?_ Balinor's coat covered both legs to the sides of Kilgarrah's neck, and the cuffs and collar were generous, but his fingers and face were uncomfortably cold, in their speed and height in the night air.

 _One moment, and you can see for yourself…_

Balinor leaned downward, as the dragon adjusted forward momentum to arc around his objective. There were the clustered pinprick lights of watchfires – torches, maybe – as Kilgarrah glided lower, wings held steady rather than rising and falling. But there to the northwest, another cluster of tiny glowing spots. _Campfires? Enemies, or refugees?_

 _Saxons_ , Kilgarrah reported.

Balinor didn't question. If he heard them at this distance or if he'd delved into their minds or if he'd had some forewarning hitherto unmentioned. _How are they so far south, and into Caerleon of all kingdoms?_ he wondered, and answered himself, _They are the witch's allies. What must she have promised them, to persuade the cooperation?_

 _Spoils_ , was the dragon's succinct reply. _She is very sure of her magic, and her success._

Balinor allowed himself a small smirk. If he couldn't negotiate her retreat, she would taste defeat again, thanks to Merlin's father, this time. Then again, that was how blood-feuds began…

 _The tower and wall seem intact_ , Kilgarrah interrupted his thoughts.

 _Where is the witch, with the Saxons?_

 _I can't tell._

So she was using a shield, Balinor guessed. Probably that was common sense, if you were going to attack the home of another magic-user. _And Merlin's wife?_

 _Safe for the moment._

And that was all that was important for now, for the night, Balinor concluded. Kilgarrah seemed to agree; he banked and tilted his wings to seek and settle upon some bit of ground to the east of the stronghold. Out of sight would be best, but it would be a dark and therefore cold camp they'd make. Eating and curling up to await the dawn together…

…..*….. …..*….. …..*….. …..*….. …..*…..

Annis stood just inside the gate, her arm beginning to ache with holding the torch high; the rest of her ached with tension and the day's frenetic activity – after hours of forced inactivity.

"Oh, Your Majesty! Thank heaven!"

The survivors from the village of Hanbury straggled up to and through the gate into the stronghold, some carrying salvaged household goods, or children. Some supporting injured friends or relatives.

"It were awful, Majesty! There were fire everywhere all at once – right in the middle of everyone's dinnertime!"

"We couldn't see! We couldn't get out! Me brother-"

"Me husband-"

"Has anyone seen me old father?"

"Me two sisters, and one of 'em has a baby-"

"Find a place in the courtyard to settle!" Annis raised her voice to repeat, her throat already raw from shouting orders and directions. "There will be food and water later. If there are injured, they can be cared for inside the tower!"

The door at the top of the stairs was open, she could see; light blazed out into the wild shadows of the courtyard, only momentarily obscured by the comings and goings.

"My lady?" murmured a voice in her ear. "Would you like me to take your place here? You can retire within…"

She didn't even turn to look at Maegden. But after all, it was her maidservant's job to make such suggestions for her health and wellbeing, even if she knew very well that Annis wouldn't take them. Couldn't take them, while the wailing and the moaning of the refugees covered any sound that might have carried from further outside the gate, where Thurston and Tythan had led a band of their warriors to occupy the Saxons while the survivors from Hanbury trailed up to and inside the walls.

And why hadn't the invaders retreated at any time after the sun set? They'd been back and forth all day, charging the gate and withdrawing as if they kept expecting the wall to tumble down of its own accord and let them swarm inside. As if they kept expecting their witch to do something – only she hadn't, after the first attack when she'd announced her presence with magic.

And that was all. And it seemed she'd retreated, too, or else whatever she'd tried all day had been so ineffectual it was literally beneath their notice.

Until Hanbury. And she couldn't stop thinking it might be more than just, striking out at a close and easier target – they couldn't imagine to expect much by the way of plunder from farmers and herdsmen…

"Oh, Your Majesty, thank goodness we've made it!" Another woman of indeterminate age in her plain peasant's clothing and head-scarf collapsed weeping, and the tall girl next to her embraced her supportively, silent and pale and inattentive with shock, herself.

"I have to say, I did not anticipate this possibility when we chose Merlin," Annis allowed her frustration to clip her words, though she kept her voice low for the sake of the people streaming haphazardly into the fortress. "His absence. During a vengeful counterattack."

"His magic in defense seems to be holding just fine," Maegden ventured, reaching out to wipe tears from a child's face and give a soothing caress to the mother's shoulder as they passed. "The walls weren't breached…"

Annis grunted. So the witch had gone to Hanbury to vent her rage, evidently. And Annis herself along with all of Beckon Cove's noncombatants, had been stuck in Cover, the underground refuge for such sieges, most of the day. Doing nothing but worry, til she'd decided, enough was enough - at least they could spare a few to help the wounded. And since the first report of Hanbury, Cover had been cleared out; everyone was needed.

"Where is the prince?" someone wailed. "Why didn't he come? Why didn't he save us?"

Annis straightened, searching for but not finding the speaker in the confusion, but aware that most of those within earshot were looking to her for an answer. Which she gave immediately.

"Merlin is away on a mission, but messages have been sent and we expect his return soon," she said, clearly and decisively.

"What of the princess?" an old woman near Annis asked, straightening her hunched shoulders slightly to brush white locks of hair away from a wrinkled face.

"She's here," Annis answered, again for the benefit of everyone awaiting the answer. "She's fine – she's assisting in the infirmary. Now, please – keep moving, and find a place to rest and you'll be given food and water shortly. Those who need a healer's attention, up the stairs to the tower. The receiving chamber is being used for a temporary infirmary – anyone with knowledge or skill and the ability to help there would be appreciated-"

A shout went up from outside the gate, gaining the attention of the last dozen refugees of Hanbury, as well as Annis and Maegden and the warriors guarding the entrance and the people.

" _Make way! Get out of the way!_ "

Annis obligingly stepped back, but her attention leaned forward on its toes – especially to see Tythan at the front of the mob of returning warriors. His head was bare save for a strip of dark indigo cloth – impossible to see if there was blood on it, in the uncertain light of flickering torches, but there was definitely blood-smear in the grime on his face.

He was focused over his shoulder on the men behind him – more wounded, being aided by their fellows – at least one carried bodily in the sling of someone's cloak-

Tythan faced forward as he strode through the gate, and his eyes found hers even as the whispered gasp reached her ears.

"It's the king! His Majesty! Is he dead?"

The world rocked around Annis, darkened momentarily, but perceptibly. She was aware of Maegden's hand on her arm, but she kept her feet and she fought for her composure.

"He's alive," Tythan told her bluntly. "But it was a dreadful wound."

He gestured, and the four men carrying the corners of the cloak didn't slow a single step, straining to move swiftly and smoothly, toward the stairs to the tower and the healer inside. One of them, Annis noticed, was Geart's son Gwaine, and there was blood on his face also.

Crumpled motionless in the depths of the material, Thurston was unrecognizable. She wouldn't have known it was him under the sweat and filth of battle, armor and blood. She could scarcely believe it now; it seemed as if her husband the king should stride through the gate at any moment, bellowing hoarse orders and glaring at those who didn't obey quickly enough to suit him.

But he didn't. He was being carried to the healer. _It was a dreadful wound_.

"Bar the gates after the last warrior is inside," she ordered, feeling reality trembling around her.

"The Saxons didn't follow our retreat," Tythan said, lingering at her side though his eyes stayed with his king. "All of Hanbury's people are safely within, now."

And the servants knew their jobs, distributing supplies and comfort and aid as needed. Tythan's men would secure the fortress and post guards through the night and-

Annis gathered up her skirts and hurried after those carrying her husband, ignoring the confused refugees and slower injured warriors. Up the stairs, through the door, into the heat and noise and stink of the receiving chamber turned infirmary.

The healer was a young man about thirty years of age, lean and twitchy with energy and abrupt with words, brown hair shorn close to a rather narrow skull, eyes so dark they were almost black. His assistant was his wife, a quiet woman with long black hair and capable fingers, slender as Freya and only slightly taller.

She was nearest the door and turned at the commotion of four men carrying their king on a spread cloak. For an instant her eyes met Annis', then she turned to the room – prone bodies on tables and benches and floor, servants scattered among them with dippers of water, washing cloths and bandages – and shouted for her husband.

" _Haelend_!"

It occurred to Annis that she had never heard Filstra raise her voice before.

"Here," Filstra added, urging the fellow whose bleeding gash she'd been tending to move away from the table to make room to lay the king.

Annis pushed between Gwaine and another warrior as they swung Thurston's weight to the table-top, yanking on the cloak material to center him. He was so deeply unconscious that he didn't respond at all; she didn't immediately locate his injury til they rolled him and Gwaine straightened his legs.

There was a sodden lump of indigo cloth tied over the top of his shoulder at the base of his neck, under his opposite arm, shiny-wet in the room's better light. Thurston's skin was dead-fish white under the stain of battle, his lips cracked and his eyes sunken under his brows.

Filstra inhaled reactively, breath hissing between her teeth, and then Haelend was there, fast and unhesitating and gentle. Annis moved back, leaning on the table and gathering Thurston's hand to jam her fingers into the pulse point in his wrist. Every tiny throb kept him with her.

 _Please._

Haelend shifted the makeshift bandage – cursed and demanded of his wife over his shoulder, "Get me some clean cloths. We've got to stop this bleeding before I can do anything else-"

Hunith was beside Annis before she realized it, handing Haelend a folded length of something that might once have belonged to a bedsheet. He flapped it out one-handed, crumpling it up and exchanging it for the saturated bandage. Already his fingers were coated with blood. He dropped the indigo-red cloth on the ground with a horrible damp plop, and bent over his work.

"We'll do our best, Majesty," he breathed, and Annis wasn't sure if he addressed Thurston, or herself.

Was the room tipping? The room was tipping. She felt sixteen again, helpless at her father's deathbed, only she wasn't sixteen and why could she not command her heart and body to the serene control she wanted?

"Stay with him, my lady," Hunith said quietly in her ear. "We can handle everything else, don't worry."

Don't worry, hells. Annis rested her hip on the side of the table, cradling Thurston's hand in hers – big, hard, rough, bloodstained hand.

If Thurston didn't live… she'd slaughter that witch with her bare hands.

…..*….. …..*….. …..*….. …..*….. …..*…..

Freya's dress was no longer the deep subtle pink of a dusty rose. Uneven splotches had bloomed on the fabric from blood and dirty wash-water; she had an apron to wipe her hands on, but she'd spent a good bit of time that afternoon on her knees, tending the wounded laid on makeshift pallets on the floor. Warriors, and now the townsfolk of Hanbury, too.

She'd been administering drinking water, mostly, though there had been an hour or two dedicated to getting soup and bread inside those that could manage it. That and keeping an eye on bandages and wounded to make sure anyone who needed the healer's attention a second time was not overlooked.

Sighing and trying to push a limp lock of hair behind her ear with her wrist, she sat back on her heels and looked about for the little squire-boy who'd been carrying buckets manfully for hours.

But there was a commotion at the double-wide doorway to the main hall – warriors pushing through, carrying someone in a large sling of cloth-

"What is it?" asked the warrior next to her, alerting to her tension and focus, his voice hoarse with suffering.

"I don't know," she said. "They're bringing someone…"

The warriors placed their burden on a table and shifted back – and there was the queen, pale and drawn, bending over the new arrival with a desperate concern that could only mean one thing.

Oh, _hells_. It was the king. Freya felt cold and numb and disconnected, for a moment.

"Something's happened?" the warrior persisted, though he was too weak even to raise himself on an elbow.

"I'm going to go see what's going on," Freya said to him without looking, pulling her skirts out of her way to get her feet under her.

The whole day, the idea of a siege, and especially during Merlin's absence, was that much more terrifying if something had happened to the king, bad enough that he needed to be carried. Hunith hovered attentively at Annis' elbow, and Freya recognized one of those who'd carried the king in as Merlin's friend, Gwaine. Not exactly a warrior of Caerleon, but he was shrugging blood from the side of his face onto the shoulder of his sleeve below the woven leather strips forming his breastplate.

She'd taken three steps to get around one of the banquet-tables – burdened with bleeding, moaning people – when the errand-boy Gareth darted into view. He ducked between folks to reach Gwaine, and clung to the man's hand with both of his.

Why hadn't she made that connection before? she asked herself tiredly. Gareth was new to Beckon Cove, and of course he hadn't arrived alone. Gwaine had been visiting family when he'd arrived to give them warning; clearly they were kin. But Gareth exuded not elation at Gwaine's return, or anxiety for the evidence of blood, but urgency in imparting some bit of news.

Two more steps. Gwaine and Gareth were between her and the royals; Gwaine was shaking his head bemusedly, and Gareth rose on his toes in his agitation.

"No, I _saw_ her!" the boy shrieked out insistently – though very few around them took notice, too distracted by their own pain or loss or the unexpected uncertainty of the king's condition. "She looked old, but I saw her reflection in the bucket of water! She was _young_ , and it was _her_! The witch you said was in Camelot!"

That word caught attention. Freya stopped still and Gwaine alerted suddenly and sternly, swinging about to search the gathered company. His gaze caught on Freya momentarily – Gareth was looking the other direction, toward the doorway – Annis and Hunith were startled into looking up from the king's body on the tabletop, though the healer never paused.

Screams, and a rush of panicked movement in the doorway. Gwaine drew his sword, and there she was.

Dark eyes and cruel smile and incongruously beautiful golden curls falling halfway down her back and even in peasant brown she was erect and imperious and triumphant. There was a sword in her hand, and there was blood on it. She stood still, and none of the warriors attacked – maybe waiting on orders, or hobbled by the threat of magic.

"Your Merlin was very eager to protect Camelot," the witch declared, cutting across the subtle sound of misery, layered groaning and stifled sobs. "It seems he has abandoned Caerleon, however. A traitor betrays, and betrays… and I am here to punish him for that betrayal. Save yourselves and give me Merlin's princess wife, and I will be gone."

 **A/N: To save myself apologizing for late chapters anymore, I'm hereby declaring any previous schedule null and void.** _ **Moving**_ **, guys. It's more complicated than I remembered… especially when you're also a** _ **homeowner**_ **. So much to do, and then I'm bushed. Snoring (I don't snore) in my reclining armchair by 8:30 at night…**


	16. The Watches of the Night

**Chapter 16: The Watches of the Night**

 _"Save yourselves and give me Merlin's princess wife, and I will be gone…"_

Freya's heart thudded in her chest, and it felt like a nightmare. Plenty of people in the room had turned their heads to look at her – not in cooperation, but in shock. The witch began to follow their eyes, weaving a bit to see through the crowd-

"We will give you nothing!" the queen said harshly, her voice almost unrecognizable. "Leave while you still can!"

The witch ignored her. Freya could see, at the corner of her vision, that Annis and Hunith were struggling a bit, each trying to shield the other, it might be – but at that moment, those dark eyes found her, and the cruel smile curved.

Gwaine moved between them, bending to shove the boy-squire toward Freya – away from the witch – ordering, "Go! _Run_!"

He didn't delay to watch, though, facing the woman crouched – ready with sword lifted. The witch's smile turned gleeful, allowing the interruption.

"I remember _you_ ," she said, stalking forward.

Gareth barreled into Freya, trying to shove against her stomach and pull her wrists at once. "Go! Run!" he repeated in a shout.

For one heartbeat she hesitated. If she surrendered, then everyone else would be safe – but they never would let her. They'd fight to protect her and if Merlin was the only one who could stop her and if Merlin wasn't here-

Already she knew how he'd blame himself for the destruction and casualties and if anything happened to _her_ … she had no idea what Merlin would do, in reaction.

Letting Gareth snatch her hand, she spun on her heel and sprinted for the servants' entrance, the length of the room opposite the main doors. Behind her she heard the rasp and _ching!_ of steel, unmistakably Gwaine dueling the witch to allow them time to escape.

And the woman didn't use magic. On him, or to stop Freya – at every step she expected to be tripped up, to be flung forward or yanked back by unseen forces – but the woman had gotten inside the fortress in the space of a single day. If Freya understood the concept of revenge correctly, maybe she didn't want it to be over too quickly.

She gasped for breath in the dark of the corridor, stumbling and keeping balance with one hand blind on the wall.

"Where shall we go?" the boy said, sounding panicked. "Where do we go to hide? Back to Cover?"

If she was more like Annis, she could find a blade and wait around a corner for the moment the witch caught up with her. If she was more like Annis, she could flee the stronghold by way of the stables, riding hard through the night and past the Saxons to meet with Merlin…

She might be more like Annis one day, but at this moment, only one thought seemed practical.

"Up the stairs!" she blurted, tugging him back to an archway he'd rushed past.

There was room for both of them, and it wasn't awkward enough to run up the steps holding hands, to make them release that little bit of comfort. And anyway, she had to protect Gareth, didn't she? If the witch went through Gwaine…

"Which way?" he panted, reaching the landing a step before she did.

Brief moment of disorientation. It had been a while since she was here – and she'd never come from this direction-

"Over here," she decided, yanking him again.

Was anyone following? Were there footsteps on the stairs below and behind them, or was that just her heart pounding in her ears?

She fumbled along the wall, found the recessed area for the door – found the latch. Dropped the boy's hand to force it open, disused as it had become, bruising her shoulder with her desperation.

They fell inside the room at the same time – and a torch on the wall just inside the doorway flared to light and light on its own.

Magic.

Freya swallowed a sob of relief, as her eyes swept over the shelf of books, and another of equipment and containers similar to a healer's store. The desks, the comfortable chairs, the table-

She relived the vivid memory of Merlin's arms around her, strong and determined and kind, as he carried her into the room and Alator turned in surprise… This place was a refuge, to her, though it wasn't her room and aside from her first two weeks at Beckon Cove, she hadn't been inside it. But this place promised freedom from darkness and fear and curses and magic that wanted to hurt and take and punish.

But those were footsteps outside, fast and forceful, and the boy hadn't gotten the door shut and barred. She reached to help him – the heavy iron-bound oaken planks were snatched from their hands and terror caught in her throat.

"Just a minute," Gwaine panted. "Let me inside first-"

The boy moved back. Gwaine took the heavy square bar for the door from her hands and slammed it into place, leaning on the door and panting. His hands were empty; so was his scabbard.

"She was right behind me," he gulped, explaining without having to be asked. "Tythan attacked her so I could follow you-"

Freya backed a few steps, squeezing her fingers together. _Right behind me_ … Gareth prowled about the room and Gwaine's eyes followed him.

"What is this place?" he added, still out of breath and not bothering to push upright or move away from the door. "Is there another way out? If we can evade her and get out of the tower entirely, maybe we can-"

She was shaking her head before he finished. "One door," she told him, and heard her voice tremble. "The window is high, and doesn't open."

He gave her a look of uncomprehending disappointment that said as clear as words, _why did you come here, then?_

"This is Merlin's class-room," she explained, finding Alator's high-backed chair behind her and sinking into it, gripping the arms. "It's been warded. Layers and layers of spells Alator laid, and Merlin. Practicing, protecting the rest of the tower from any mistakes he might make in practicing. Containing… Maybe she can physically break the door down, but I don't think she can use magic to get inside."

Gwaine's expression relaxed, and he let himself slide down the inside of the door, tipping his head to watch it behind him, as if he could visually confirm her belief. "It's not really a solution," he commented, sounding exhausted. "If we don't have food and water, she can just wait us out."

"But Merlin will come," she said.

He hummed agreeably, ready to let her hope. "She might take and threaten hostages."

 _Come out or I'm going to kill this child, or woman, or whoever_ … Freya swallowed thickly. "One of the wardings was for sound? If she realizes we can't hear her threats…"

"Ah," he said, settling and letting his legs sprawl into the room. "Yeah…"

Gareth had made his way around the walls, inspecting their voluntary prison, and returned to crouch by Gwaine's hip, studying his face intently. Gwaine, to Freya's surprise, didn't grin into Gareth's face or speak to reassure him, to reach to tussle his mop of dark hair. Instead he gave a little grimace and turned away from the boy's scrutiny.

"She hurt you," the boy said suddenly. "Where? How bad?"

Gwaine winced, moving his arm away from his body to reveal his woven-leather breastplate, intact. "It held – I'm not bleeding. But it felt like the kick of a mule, so I don't know…"

Freya moved from Alator's chair to the floor beside Gwaine, grimacing herself. It might be a bit of bruising and soreness. Or it might be worse, and he could start coughing or vomiting or passing blood – or just bleeding on the inside til he died without spilling a single drop. And they had no chance of Haelend's help, here.

If the witch had left him able to help… if she'd left anyone at all…

Gareth curled up against Gwaine's side, under Gwaine's arm, and the tired warrior looked glad of it. She wished she could do the same – she wished Merlin was here, right now, to put his arms around her. Stronger and not so skinny anymore and she'd memorized his smell and the way his voice reverberated in his chest under her ear.

 _I'm here. I'll fix this, I promise…_

Tears squeezed out from under her eyelids, and she turned away to settle herself in to wait out a very long night.

…..*….. …..*….. …..*….. …..*….. …..*…..

Annis wondered for a brief moment why the witch was solely focused on Freya – and no mention made of Hunith. Did she not know that Merlin had a mother here in the very same room – or didn't she care? One moment more and Annis expected Hunith to speak up and offer herself in Freya's place.

Which wouldn't solve anything, really. Who was going to hold a magic-user to a bargain they decided not to keep? Then it might be Hunith and Freya, both. All of them, maybe.

But what would prevent that outcome anyway, now? She'd been watching the refugees – they all had – for a young yellow-haired woman who didn't belong with Hanbury's villagers. Not an old woman…

And Thurston was unconscious and maybe dying and it was all down to her-

And then Geart's son stepped boldly between the witch and her quarry, all that defiance mature and dangerous and she remembered why her husband had been gruffly pleased to call his father one of the best.

"I remember you," the witch said, almost playfully, sauntering forward and handling the bloody blade she carried like she knew what to do with it.

Behind Gwaine, his little squire-nephew was urging Freya to run – Annis echoed the sentiment with silent fervency. _Go. Run_. They might overwhelm the witch and they might all die trying and the able-bodied warriors were only a handful among women and children and wounded. They could hope to distract and delay.

If Freya ran, the witch might chase her – away from here, and Freya might still escape, and everyone here would be just a little bit safer.

Gwaine was buying time for the princess with grim skill, giving way before the witch's attacks but slowly and defensively - but it seemed odd to Annis the way he buckled slightly under her blows. And then began ducking to avoid them entirely… Til she remembered. _Magic_. Merlin occasionally did the same in a match. Which was a slightly disturbing thought.

"Majesty?" Tythan was beside her, hard and focused on the two combatants – as everyone was. "We could carry the king out, the two of you could escape-"

She glanced over to meet Haelend's quick keen look – he'd heard, and shook his head. Try it against his advice…

All the goddesses damn that witch at once. Annis didn't know what to do. If she had a bow, she'd risk missing and hitting Gwaine instead, for one clear shot at the blonde woman's back. Or one after another til her quiver was empty…

Distract. Possibly negotiate?

Gwaine staggered, his off arm wrapping his middle, striking out desperately and sluggishly to keep her blade at a distance from his body. She swung widely and carelessly, knocking his sword clear out of his hand, to the shock and dismay of the entire room. Beside Annis, Tythan inhaled swiftly. There was a look on Gwaine's face, a flash of despair – he didn't want to die not knowing if his death made a difference.

 _My kingdom for a bow_. And maybe she meant it.

"Damn her to hell!" Tythan growled, flinging himself into action without waiting for Annis' permission. As he yanked his sword, Gwaine's eyes flicked past the woman to the warrior-captain, and despair was replaced with reprieve.

The witch spun to face Tythan's threat – and Gwaine spun to scramble for the door where Freya and the boy had disappeared.

 _Oh, good!_ Annis thought fiercely, and then-

The witch gestured without raising her sword to defend herself, irritation blazing darkly from her eyes. Tythan's whole body flinched motionless – his momentum taking him briefly to his toes, before he toppled to the stone of the floor.

It sounded like dozens of people were sobbing in alarm and terror. Hunith's hand at her elbow was trembling; the other three warriors who'd carried the king vibrating with impotent hatred to the side of Annis' vision. Only Haelend seemed to ignore the enemy in their midst to continue the war he waged against his own enemy.

Tythan didn't move.

Annis stepped forward. The witch sneered, but otherwise said nothing as Annis gathered her skirt and knelt to push against Tythan's shoulder, turn and roll him so she could see what had-

His head lolled in a gruesomely abnormal way. Poultry wrung for the stewpot. His skin was gray and his breathing hitched and gasped.

He was dying. And Annis could not believe there was anything Haelend could do. Her lungs fought for air, too, and her eyes stung. She whispered his name. "Tythan…"

His eyelids fluttered. His gaze was dulled and unfocused, but it seemed to her that he saw her. She dared lay her hand gently alongside his unshaven cheek, giving him as firm a nod and as bright a smile as she could manage. _Yes, you've discharged your duty honorably. Rest easy, brave warrior…_

How patient he'd been with Merlin. With Thurston. And he'd clashed tankards and shouted drinking-songs and he'd commanded cleverly and he'd never loved a woman that she knew of, saving all his loyalty for _them_.

The light left his eyes, and the breath sighed from his lungs, and he was gone.

They could sooner have spared a hole blasted through the fortress wall, a hole like the one she felt blasted through her rib cage. She could count on the fingers of one hand people whose loss she would feel more keenly than this…

She found tears of fury and of grief in her eyes as she looked up at the witch, all smug unconcern, and she opened her mouth to say something _very_ unpolitic-

"He made his choice," the witch said. "What will yours be, _my lady_?"

Annis made her knees unbend, so she could look the younger woman in the eye and promise the full wrath of every last ally she could call on. As long as they could retreat and regroup, or somehow force or persuade her to retreat and regroup-

"Come with me," the witch added, tossing golden ringlets over the shoulder of her earth-colored homespun dress. Tensed briefly to raise her hand in warning. "Ah. Just the queen."

Annis turned to see that the three warriors all paused in some attitude of menace, weapons gripped to draw. And the witch could snap their necks in a heartbeat. She let her expression reassure and command at once; they knew their hierarchy, and whose authority was highest now. Hunith had eased down on the opposite side of Thurston and that was good; he was in capable hands and Annis could do nothing with her mere presence anyway.

She squared her shoulders and lifted her chin and faced the witch.

Who smiled with sneering triumph and swept through the room like it was hers-

It _wasn't_.

-Toward the door at the far end, where Freya and the boy and Gwaine had escaped. For a moment she wondered if she was going to be ordered to disclose their route and destination, but the younger woman gestured and spoke a spell Annis almost understood from her familiarity with Merlin's magic. Something about searching, or finding-

A stream of golden motes snaked down the corridor and around a corner that Annis knew led to a stairway – which only went _up_. Where were they going? What was Freya thinking?

"Go," the witch ordered.

Annis didn't respond, but followed the trail. Perhaps the witch thought to foil any ambushes around night-dark corners, sending Annis first, but she was content in the moment to set a pace more sedate than rushed. Any minute she could give those three to get away…

However, it wasn't a long trail. If Gwaine had gone at the same time as the other two, they might have flown the tower and Beckon Cove altogether. But as it was – up a stair, around another corner, halfway down a hall – she completely approved of Freya's choice of cover. She came to a stop before the door where the shining trail of dust vanished, and faced the witch – who gestured to send a pair of torches set in sconces on the corridor wall ablaze.

"Open it and go inside," the witch demanded, clearly excited at the prospect of catching her quarry. It was disturbing to see even a warrior-woman so eager to inflict pain and punishment on someone who'd never done a personal harm, and could in nowise defend herself.

"That room has no other door," Annis informed her. "If they entered, they're still inside. And obviously would have locked the door."

"Knock," the witch told her. "And tell them to open or I will squeeze the bones of your spine apart."

Chills rippled down Annis' back and she wanted to hate this woman but she was afraid such strong emotion would draw the sort of attention from the witch that she didn't want. And she couldn't allow emotion to compromise her reason, not now when all depended on her, though she was exhausted and achy from tension and any moment might be her husband's last, and she wasn't with him.

"It will do no good," Annis said shortly. And demonstrated, pounding with a fist and raising her voice to identify herself, assuring them that danger was past and the witch killed.

That made the younger woman huff in half-offended sarcasm. But there was no sound from within. She reached to Annis without touching her – her throat closed and no air reached her lungs, though she fought not to react it was terrifying – and cocked her head contemplatively. "Swear upon your life there is no other way out of the room. Or I will disconnect your body from your mind and you will be trapped in an unmoving, decaying corpse to watch as I cut through every single one of those people downstairs."

Her hand relaxed, and Annis could breathe again. She had to clear her throat to be able to say, "I swear. I would lie to you in a heartbeat, but it seems I have nothing to gain from that."  
The witch shoved Annis away, braced herself, and commanded the door to unlock and open – Annis recognized at least a variation of that spell.

Nothing happened. The witch rounded on Annis, glaring – and Annis took a calculated risk.

"If I tell you about that chamber, may I take my wounded husband and soldiers and townspeople and depart the fortress, conceding your victory?"

Dark eyes scrutinized her suspiciously, and for the first time in a very long time, Annis hoped she looked her age. Every year drawing lines with a hand made heavy with responsibility.

"Moments ago you said you'd give me nothing," the witch said. "Now you offer your princess and your fortress at once? Is my magic really that much more impressive than anything you've seen from Merlin?"

Annis ignored the question. Struggling briefly, she dropped her gaze to the floor between them and spoke deliberately. "She's a commoner. Merlin's rule would be more stable and certain with a noble wife." Which was strictly true, from an outsider's perspective. She would wager, however, that everyone in Beckon Cove and quite a few of their landholding nobility who'd visited that year knew better, having seen the interaction of the prince with his princess, and the confidence Freya reminded Merlin he already possessed. Annis added, "And, you've just killed our best warrior over her. I want an end to it – all of it."

The witch took a swaggering step right up to Annis. "No," she said thoughtfully. "No, that's not it. You think… whatever paltry magics Merlin has done on this room, for whatever reason, you think it can hold against me. You think your princess and that bastard warrior are safe, and you think by retreating from your fortress, you will be safe from me."

Annis raised her eyes but not her chin, and the witch smirked.

"You're wrong, you know," she added. "On both counts. Oh, you may leave, I won't stop you just now. But I will enter that room and claim your princess – and then I will come after you and your king and all your men. And then let Merlin try to hold his world and his inheritance together."

Annis breathed, and held the witch's dark gaze, taking the space of three heartbeats to decide. The woman had tricked her way inside Beckon Cove to within mere paces of her quarry; Gwaine and Tythan both bested by skill and magic, and Thurston was currently incapable of deciding strategy. As Annis saw it, there was no one in Beckon Cove who could stop the witch, though Merlin might. And her sister might.

She could not help Freya now, much as she might wish to, and no one would benefit from more warriors sent against the witch to be killed. They could not offer sufficient distraction to delay her expending attention and magic against this door without dying; she was already delayed as much as anyone could manage. Annis' time was perhaps better spent trying to reach one of the two who had any chance against the witch. No one knew where Merlin was, but she did know where the lady Morgana was camped.

Annis lifted her chin, then. "Swear that my commoners, who've already suffered through your magic and deceit, will be spared. When you get inside that room – or when you give up trying – you will leave them alone inside the great hall, and pursue only us, as a military target."

The witch sneered. "Maybe I will, and maybe I won't." With a toss of her blonde ringlets, she faced the door and lifted her hand to begin another spell. " _Ic the_ _bebiode_ …"

Annis recognized it as a phrase meant to emphasize and empower any more specific command. She took comfort from the fact that the door held without so much as a rattle of the latch – but gathered her skirt smoothly and turned to depart without looking at the witch. No sense of triumph, however temporary, should tempt the woman into something Annis would regret.

The sound of another voiced spell followed her down the stair – then another.

So Merlin's magic held.

Annis hurried. She couldn't credit the witch's patience so far as to assume any of them _safe_.

Her foot caught at the threshold of the secondary door into the great hall, and she caught herself on the frame, gathering attention and the startled silence of an abrupt moment – almost immediately splintered with wails and sobs and frantic questions called out.

One of the warriors approached her, headscarf discarded; he was maybe a decade younger than herself and Thurston, stocky and beginning to grizzle in his hair and beard, squint-lines showing at his eyes.

Anden, Tythan's second-in-command. She glanced behind him to see that Tythan's body had been moved – she couldn't see where – his face was probably covered. She swallowed an expected sob of her own – hells, she was tired – and dried her eyes on her sleeve.

"My lady?" Anden said.

She hoped he'd adjust swiftly to command, but no one could be better than Tythan.

"The princess is safe in Merlin's class chamber with Gwaine and the boy," she said, shortly but clearly enough to be understood by those who quieted – so most quieted. "The witch is determined to break the room's wards-"

"But she let you go?" Anden questioned.

Annis swayed to the side to see the table where Thurston lay, past Anden. Haelend was still busy, bent over the prone figure of the king – both reassuring and worrying at once. He was alive, but his condition wasn't secure.

She took a breath to steady herself. "For a time. She's convinced she can get into the room – we must pray Merlin's magic will hold."

"I will take some men, we will attack-" Anden started.

"We really can't afford to lose any more," Annis said sharply. "Underestimating her would be a fatal error and might provoke retaliation. On a large scale, or against innocents…"

"We could wait in a blind ambush, til she's distracted by the wards on the room going down-"

Annis bristled at the tacit assumption. "And hope she doesn't have defensive measures in place like those which Merlin employs upon his person? And your attack only enrages her?" She shifted to address Haelend across the room. "Is His Majesty able to travel, or shall we disguise him and leave him among the villagers?"

"His Majesty is very weak and isn't likely to recover consciousness for several days, but I believe he can survive a short trip to somewhere that is safer than here." Haelend's summary was bolstered by his wife's quieter but decisive nod.

"Then prepare him to leave as soon as possible," Annis ordered. "And every warrior who is able to keep up and defend others as well as himself. I believe that our wounded will be safer here, as well as all those who have come from Hanbury."

Shock, uncertainty, agitation.

"If she seizes the princess or if she gives up trying, her attention should revert to His Majesty and myself." Her eyes met Hunith's, beside Filstra, and she saw that Merlin's mother assumed her inclusion as a secondary target for the witch. Annis concluded tiredly to her common people, "Your usefulness to her is over. I expect that she will leave you here in peace as long as no one acts against her."

"And if she follows us out, we regain Beckon Cove?" Anden said. "Should we leave a contingent of men to guard the gate, to keep the Saxons from entering at any time?"

Annis reflected for a moment. She wasn't sure the witch cared about her Saxon army any more than she cared about the villagers of Hanbury. They were a means to an end; they had provided the focus of attention while she'd disguised herself to enter the stronghold, then she'd gone straight for Freya rather than giving thought to helping the Saxons sack and pillage Beckon Cove.

"Perhaps those with minor wounds," she agreed. "Who can still defend, but who may not be able to accompany us."

She wouldn't voice their destination, in case the witch asked these people what they knew. Really, who could guess what the woman might do, whether she laid hands on Freya or not? Who could stop her from opening the gates – or blasting new access right through the wall – for the Saxons in the morning, if she so chose? If it wasn't nighttime and they weren't still reeling from the infiltration of the castle and the near-fatal wounding of their king, she might consider sending what men she could to attack the Saxons' night camp. Maybe in the morning, from the old druid encampment toward the northwest; there was a honeycomb of caves in a sheltered cliffside where Thurston could remain hidden with caretakers even if the witch or the Saxons caught up with them. If they traveled as dark as possible as quickly as possible, they might hope to escape the notice of the Saxons in the camp – but in the morning…

"They may attack again in the morning," Anden suggested, frowning.

"Without the witch, they are not a significant threat, are they?" Annis said wearily.

Anden thought for a moment. "They took heavier losses than we did…"

"Then, unless the witch is involved, we can defend our walls as before. But now, we delay too long – let's go." Annis moved toward her husband, wanting to check his condition herself. He followed her without objection, and she added in an undertone, "Anden, choose a messenger and have him ride for the Camelot border and Lord Acollyn's camp. Say I greatly desire the presence of his wife the lady Morgana as swiftly as they can possibly manage. We will expect to intercept their arrival when it is most convenient."

…..*….. …..*….. …..*….. …..*….. …..*…..

Gwaine tried to keep track of the hours as they passed. The other two dozed, curled in armchairs dragged to the corner where an entrance at the door wouldn't immediately see them. But he suspected, in spite of the occasional cramping pain beneath and behind his ribs from Morgause's strike, in spite of the discomfort of his position on the floor with his back to the door-

It trembled once, for half a heartbeat, then went still-

He suspected that he'd dozed more than once, too.

Gareth roused, stretching - fists over shoulders, and skinny chest stuck out as he arched his spine. He blinked like he wasn't sure why he wasn't in his bed, and met Gwaine's eyes. "I got to pee."

He whispered, and the princess curled in the chair opposite – a cushion for her head wedged against one of the wings of the high back – didn't even twitch.

Gwaine whispered back, "What do you want _me_ to do about it?"

Hours ago they'd already chosen a large urn – maybe a vessel for armfuls of cut flowers - as a surrogate chamber pot, and placed it behind one of the drapes at the window alcove for nominal privacy.

"I was carrying all that water back and forth," the boy had mumbled, defiant chagrin. "I drank some of it, sometimes."

Gareth was quick and quiet, but when he came back, he dropped to the floor beside Gwaine and rested his head on Gwaine's thigh, legs drawn up and elbows tucked down. He didn't say a word, only closed his eyes and relaxed by degrees, like he hadn't fully woken to the realization of why they were where they were.

His throat clogged with regret and an urge to apologize. _I'm sorry I got you into this, little knight. You should be at home with your family, in your bed, with no more worry than being scolded for climbing the roof, or being late for dinner_.

Usually he sympathized with Merlin's determination not to know more about future possibilities than he had to, but just now he wished he knew the outcome of this, one way or the other. If they had mere hours left to live, or if they'd make it through all right.

Lightly he brushed his fingertips over the boy's tousled hair. Had he been given dinner? When was the last time they'd bathed?

"I remember my father."

His eyes flew up to meet the princess' – but she was looking at Gareth; she hadn't moved to alert him she was awake.

"Only a little. I remember him carrying in a load of firewood, and dropping it. Bits of bark all over, and my mother was mad about having to sweep again. He laughed. He broke sticks over his knee that were… bigger around than my wrist. He was very gentle." The glimmer in her dark eyes blinked down her cheek as tears, and she shifted to wipe the moisture away. "You're very good with him."

Gwaine made a noncommittal noise.

He remembered his father taking him on his back to carry to bed – away from the firelight and noise of the company gathered there as the day ended, out to the darkness and silence and solitude and often the chill of his bed. And it was just the two of them – his father so large and solid and warm. And sometimes he'd hum a little song and bounce in his step like the gait of a horse, like the promise of what would come when Gwaine grew up. That someday Gwaine might come riding back home, sword strapped to his hip, sweaty and filthy and stinking of man's work and triumph, and kiss the mother of his children fiercely in full view of everyone…

But maybe the princess' words meant more. Her elbow was bent to allow her hand pressed to her midsection in a way that made him _suspect_.

"And Merlin's gone looking for his father," she continued, still watching Gareth like she was looking at another pair, boy and guardian, and who? "And maybe he'll be wonderful, but…"

Gwaine remembered the abandoned cave in Merendra, and couldn't imagine anyone the princess would consider _wonderful_ , living there. He guessed softly, "What if he's not?"

She nodded, her hair rumpling against the cushion. "Merlin is so much like his mother – and where he's different, I think he's learned it from being _here_. What if he's not like his father at all, what if his father is – a disappointment?"

"Merlin's father is only human," Gwaine sighed. "Just like the rest of us. But am I wrong in assuming, there's a reason you're worrying about the character of your husband's father and the quality of the role?"

She blinked, and didn't bother catching the tears, meeting his eyes finally. "Maybe. I don't know… yet. But I think so."

Gwaine wanted to say something to reassure her, promise her the door would hold, that Merlin would come and defeat the witch… but the fact was, neither of them knew any such thing. She couldn't believe him, in any case, and he wouldn't trivialize their situation or her intelligence making promises like that.

But he could say with conviction, "Merlin loves you. So much."

Two more tears. But this time they were halted by the cuff of her sleeve, and she nodded.

If this was all they had, had it been enough? It never was, maybe. But also he thought, brushing his nephew's hair, silky-fine and needing washed, it was far more than they'd expected. He knew enough of the princess' story to guess she'd feel the same – they each had gotten a second chance at a new life.

Which was more than some got, he supposed.

He rubbed hairs between thumb and forefinger and let them spring back into place, sleep-damp on Gareth's head. Of course he'd protect Princess Freya with his life. For Merlin far more than for Caerleon. But he thought she'd fight just as hard as him to protect the children.

This boy and her child should live. And he would die to make sure of that.

…..*….. …..*….. …..*….. …..*….. …..*…..

Mordred woke with swift inhalation, his heart pounding and his eyes wide open for no reason he could remember. The hilt of his shoddy sword was clutched so tightly his hand ached, and he became aware of coal-glow and restless-sleep noises from his companions, before he remembered.

Prince Arthur captured. Emrys coming with a wrath and violence that was fine and sharp and clean, to save him.

Ismere, and the Diamair whose weird blue glow had faded to the tranquility of an old woman. The mountain cave, and a dragon who'd dropped words into Mordred's mind like heated rocks into a pot of water.

 _Your bane is your self – who never trusts is never betrayed… It is that boy's destiny to bring about Arthur's doom…_

And Arthur's unspoken response to both creatures of magic seemed to be, _I'll trust whoever I bloody well want to._

Lying on the ground, Mordred's muscles twitched as he mentally performed the contre quarte against a high-line attack as Arthur had patiently demonstrated, while Emrys prowled on the edge of awareness like an agitated dragon. But his attention had been outward. Directed to his enemy, and Mordred included in the circle of protected companionship.

 _You're welcome in Beckon Cove anytime. And, if you ever hurt Arthur_ _Pendragon, I will dismember you slowly…_

Which was, he thought, opposite to the druids' thinking. They had rejected him before he'd done anything wrong – just the one forbidden spell. He didn't really understand that – but he didn't really care to understand that anymore. There was no going back, even if he wanted to, and he was fairly certain he didn't want to.

Pendragon and Emrys were men of action, quick thought and decision. Quite unlike the druids who gathered to speak for hours every night, who sat and thought and thought. Maybe it was better, sometimes, to quit thinking and act. Maybe it was time for that in his life, too – try to follow the example set, and shove destiny and whatever truth lay behind the shroud of mystery and uncertainty and riddle, out of sight and out of mind. Reject shame and blame for something that hadn't happened, and strive to be… noble, like they were noble.

If he couldn't be a druid and he didn't have to be a thief… maybe someday he could be a-

A fighter, he told himself firmly, unwilling to hope for the other word. Hopes disappointed. People disappointed. But maybe he could stop letting himself down.

A small movement caught the corner of his eye and he turned his head on his pillow of the saddle that once was Ragnor's to see that Merlin, lying on his back with his hands folded on his chest, had bent his knees to draw his boots up, soles flat on the ground and eyes focused somewhere in the leaves of the trees overhead.

Mordred watched him a moment. Emrys, born just as common as Mordred himself. And a trick of fate, maybe, that he hadn't been discovered by a king and queen in need of an heir, and interested in magic. Did he have it in himself to be like Merlin? Tough and determined and… fair.

As if he felt Mordred's gaze, Merlin turned his head to the side also, his eyes connected to Mordred's instantly. And just watched Mordred in return, without any change of expression to betray adverse reaction or thoughts.

Mordred dared greatly. _You should be asleep_.

For a moment more, Merlin's expressionlessness held. Then his lips quirked slightly, and he responded. _So should you_.

Mordred didn't try to stop his smile, but covered most of it in turning the other way and reshuffling the blanket covering him. That roused Pendragon on his other side – he cringed slightly, rude to disturb a sleeping prince – but Arthur opened his eyes only half-way, blinking heavy lids over a sliver of coal-lit blue.

"All right?" he slurred, his voice throaty with sleep.

Mordred hummed affirmation, and Arthur closed his eyes and settled without moving, again.

Maybe when they reached Merlin's home to face this witch who had attacked his family in his absence – Mordred's memory flashed an image of hungry fire-heat devouring a ruined campsite – maybe then Mordred could fight, too. He knew exactly whose side he'd be on.

His choice to be loyal to Emrys and the future king would be just as firm as their own to him.

 **A/N: Bit shorter. Bit quicker than the last couple, too. And situations still unresolved. I did warn you there would be several chapters of that, didn't I?...**


	17. Unlocked

**Chapter 17: Unlocked**

Balinor woke as Kilgarrah took to flight, feeling the familiar buffeting of the wind, chilling him as the heat and shelter of the dragon's body vanished, leaving him with the gritting of the ground underneath him. The dust whirled in his eyes as he pushed himself stiffly up to sitting.

 _Any news?_ He sent after the great creature, inclined to surliness himself and not caring in the moment that Kilgarrah had taken to the air without him. Hells, he was sore. And it was early. _What's going on?_

 _Your daughter is safe_. Kilgarrah surged upward with a sinuous motion, disappearing into the vague dim of the pre-dawn sky within moments.

What am I to do, then, walk up to the gates? Balinor thought crossly. Get there at the same time as the Saxons renewing their attack?

Then again, there was no point showing himself and Kilgarrah in the sky as a precursor to making a more civilized approach, until they could actually be seen. No point joining the fighting to prove which side their loyalty lay on, til there was fighting.

Balinor stood to stretch the kinks from his old bones before he reached for the pack which had served as his pillow and which contained his supplies – and stopped mid-movement.

They'd landed and slept on the highest rise of land in the vicinity, unafraid of anyone discovering their claim or attempting to attack them – a particular bit of foolishness that would never be repeated. Sloping hill on one side, dropping steeply into jagged cliffs and a winding pass on the other. He'd noticed a lingering sense of presence across the night-obscured valley, easily and swiftly disregarded by Kilgarrah.

 _What's that?_

 _Druid encampment._

They were a nomadic people; he could tell there was no one in residence, the night before.

That was not true any longer.

Any number of small-cave openings glowed with campfires or torchlight, and people moved about in the area below the cliffs opposite his own hilltop. Not Saxons; they might leave their camp and come here to try their hand at killing a dragon if they had discovered Kilgarrah and Balinor - no more stupidly ludicrous a decision than attacking the capital of a barbarian kingdom – but they would then attack immediately or hide their presence for an opportune moment, not make another camp and wait to be found out.

He watched a moment, content to be unnoticed himself; no one would look in his direction for the dawn or the invaders or the fortress. Colors were all dark while the sun remained below the horizon, but he was quite certain those cloaks and turbans and veils would be indigo in sunlight. And he didn't think their women habitually wore the same garments, and there didn't seem to be any small people running about – it was a gathering of their warriors, then, no women or children. Maybe a band of lord's men come to their king's aid.

Perfect, actually.

He slung his pack over his shoulder and set out to descend his hill, angling to travel the pass and come out to any posted sentries with plenty of warning. To their credit, he heard them before he saw them.

"Stop where you are or this arrow goes through your gut," a gruff voice ordered.

Balinor obeyed, lifting empty hands to show them he intended no threat.

"Saxon spy?" the voice said, lowered almost beyond his hearing – the speaker likely addressing a companion for an opinion rather than asking Balinor himself. Who of course would lie if he was.

He spoke anyway. "My name is Balinor. I am the father of Merlin, your prince." And their reaction to that might tell him quite a bit about his son and the quality of his role here in Caerleon. If they sneered, or if they respected… "I'm here as an ally against your enemies the Saxons."

"Armed?" the voice said, coming nearer and accompanied by the subtle sound of boot-tread on stony ground.

"I've a sword belted at my hip beneath my coat," Balinor said, but didn't drop his hands. Better safe than sorry, especially with barbarians. Who've been invaded. And you're a stranger.

A gloved hand reached gingerly around to shift his coat and lift the sword from his sheath.

"Walk," he was told.

So he did, letting his hands drop but keeping them in sight and relatively still. As they approached the greater gathering of warriors, the men who had found positions to make themselves comfortable – sitting, lying down, dozing as men of action do in such situations – alerted. Faces turned toward him; three or four stood. The owner of the footsteps behind Balinor gave a whistled signal – Balinor couldn't put an effect to that cause, but a moment later a female figure emerged from one of the caves to stalk down to the path to meet him.

He stood still.

She wore plain dark wool and a wolfskin over her shoulders for warmth. Two slender braids from either temple tied behind her head held long wavy hair – gray strands glistened in red-brown – back from her face. Her mouth was pinched but her eyes burned steady – past him, focused on the warrior-sentry.

"Claims to be the prince's father," the sentry offered. Loudly enough to be overheard; at least two more men in Balinor's range of vision stood also.

The lady scrutinized him, expressionless. "And Merlin's mother's name?" she demanded, testing him.

"Hunith," he said, keeping his own voice quietly private. Which was good, it almost broke on that name, and would've betrayed too much emotion. Interesting to see that she was a well-known person in this kingdom too, though.

She looked at him a moment longer, then nodded once, decisively. "Where is he? He's not with you?"

"No, he's not, he's maybe a day's journey north. Maybe a day and a half. We received word that your stronghold was threatened, and I came ahead to offer my help."

"You came ahead?" she said, frowning so deeply it was almost a scowl. "We were counting rather heavily on his help in the situation. His magic. Do you…" Her eyebrow quirked meaningfully.

"My magic isn't very strong," he admitted. "But I have some skill-"

"Hells," she said, forcefully but quietly, and shifted to look back at the cave-riddled hillside.

"Some skill with a sword," he continued mildly, wondering how close she was to the royal family, how much she knew of them – of him – and what balances he might upset in giving information too generously. He decided to add, "The dragon is with me."

She swung back, eyes narrowed, and didn't say, _What dragon?_ "The dragon, of course – that's how you came ahead of Merlin. So you heard our message from Morgana-"

The female voice Kilgarrah had remembered for him, he assumed.

"I am surprised he didn't come with you, or in your stead," the lady went on. "He is… particular, when it comes to Freya. Unless Morgana didn't emphasize that part of the witch's threat?"

"Freya is Merlin's wife?" Balinor asked, feeling a strange quiver of emotion. Freya was her name. It sounded… level-headed and competent and unpretentious, but feminine.

"I guess the two of you were not together long before we interrupted," the lady said.

And it hadn't been a meeting to encourage a rush to confidences, he reflected ruefully. But – _we_? With the message, she meant?

"I do apologize," Balinor said, dredging his memory for courtly manners, in case they mattered in Caerleon; he needed to make a good impression. "I've neglected to introduce myself properly-" though he'd given his name to the sentry- "My name is Balinor, I am a dragonlord."

"Yes," the lady said, somewhat impatiently, as if she genuinely hadn't realized she'd neglected to explain herself – and a moment later, he realized it was because she was unused to explaining herself. "I am Annis, Queen of Caerleon."

Hells, indeed – why were they _out here_? He began, "Your Majesty-"

"Please don't say that," she said peremptorily. "If you don't feel comfortable with my given name, _my lady_ is the most I'll tolerate. Your son is my son, after all."

Balinor opened his mouth to retort, to protest, to express somehow the resistance that rose in his chest, hot and immediate, and checked himself. Twenty years of Merlin's life he'd missed. He had no right to claim past, very little involvement in the present, and some small hope for the future… Merlin's life was full of folk who were dear to him, and stranger to Balinor.

"If you're wondering why we're here rather than inside our fortress, it's because the witch has already gotten inside it," the queen added wearily, ignoring his consternation at both her identity and her rank. "I assume from Merlin's absence that your dragon will not carry two, but it may be that the witch's sister – a friend of Merlin's, which is a very long story and this not the time for it – is closer than he is. Perhaps your dragon might fly her here, or Merlin himself, if a stranger is an issue. Or if a woman is an issue?"

"I have no idea if anyone but myself has ever ridden with Kilgarrah," he said, and felt more at ease with her assertive demeanor. Of course this was the queen of the barbarians. "I can ask him?"

She nodded, looking back up toward the caves behind her.

 _Kilgarrah_ , he sent. And, knowing the dragon could hear him, didn't wait for acknowledgement. _Could you fly north to bring Merlin here more swiftly than he could manage on his own?_ Woman or not, Merlin's friend or not, he wouldn't ask Kilgarrah to carry a stranger. That was a bit of a line to be crossed, he felt, unless the dragon offered himself. And this was the creature who wouldn't deign to inform him that the mother of his son still lived…

 _My presence here is more important._

 _Why?_ he returned crossly. _You cannot enter their stronghold. You cannot tear their tower apart in search of the witch-_

It wasn't an audible snort, more a burst of disdainful emotion, of the sort that made Balinor uneasy, wondering what Kilgarrah knew that he did not. Don't tear their tower apart in search of the witch…

As he communicated the warning, tapering into insignificance with the knowledge and remembrance of who he addressed – and the realization of who it was approaching them. For the first moment he wondered, _Merlin's wife?_

No…

The only other gown-clad female figure he'd seen in the warrior band, emerging from the cliff's deeper gloom into the growing glow of imminent dawn, picking her way over stony ground with a handful of skirt and a dainty step. Unassuming and quietly confident – the scarf over her hair had fallen to the back of her head, loosing wisps around her face and longer locks over her shoulders.

If there were gray strands he didn't see them. If there were lines or wrinkles in her face, he couldn't tell.

Twenty years, and so much he feared he'd forgotten, lost forever to a fallible memory, a dream-impression that evaporated when he woke, never to be regained or renewed, but he knew her, remembered her… Just so, had she come to the well with her bucket, bravely approaching a distraught and disheveled stranger to offer him water-

He drank in the sight of her, and then her step faltered to a stop – her eyes wide with the connection made in one heart-stopping second. His breath caught in his throat; he couldn't speak her name.

So long. So damned long.

Distance was closing before he had time to think, to try to prepare because _thinking_ was entirely inadequate – his feet moved him closer and the pain was exquisite.

 _Slow down, what if she prefers formality, what if you offend_ …

But she was his earth, and he was falling.

She inhaled on a little gasp and lunged up on her toes, flinging her arms around his shoulders and gripping him too tightly, he didn't deserve, it hurt to have what he missed so deeply so long-

So suddenly, and so freely it hurt it hurt-

The shard of regret that had buried itself in his heart so long ago stirred, shifted, twisted - and he deserved the pain, but – something clicked into place like a key in a lock, perfect and at home and swinging open…

She was sobbing, too. Not with tears, but with stuttering breaths and incoherent murmurs, spread hands squeezing his shoulder blades, cupping his neck, gathering his hair, pressing the softness of her body against him without inhibition. She still considered herself his? still considered him hers, to do so with?

He buried his nose in her neck – another memory that unlocked another forgotten portion of his heart, flooding his senses so that he shuddered and of course she felt that. The way she _smelled._ She smelled – oh, sage and lavender and something like wet clay and wild onions. He tried to stop shaking, tried to hold still so she wouldn't know, so he wouldn't scare her or burden her or overwhelm her… Tears slid out from under his eyelids.

" _Oh_ ," she said, relaxing toward him just a little more, surrendering her body to him to hold, to wrap his arms around and _hold_ , for ever and for not long enough. "Oh, _Balinor_."

"I'm sorry," he managed. "I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I'm so-"

"I know," she whispered in his ear, plucking his hair away and willingly raising her lips to brush his lobe and he shivered again. "I know. Me, too. Balinor…"

Sharp, heavy, corrosive emotion across hidden sensitivities. Longing, loss, shame… hope. All his questions answered – she'd missed him, she'd loved him, she wanted him, too – and a host more were raised. Now what? How? When?

Not now.

Her body tensed and he released her to lean back from him, frowning in study but keeping her hands on his shoulders like she wasn't sure of her balance and needed him. "Where's Merlin? He's not with you?"

"We got the message." He spoke swiftly and simply – nothing but honesty with her, he swore, from now on. No leaving things out, no hiding the truth – that hadn't protected her for long, anyway. Evidently Caerleon – and this queen beside him – had done that _for_ him, for many years. "Kilgarrah heard the woman. She said-"

"Kilgarrah is the dragon?" Hunith asked, confirming more than interrupting and he nodded. Damn, she was stronger than he'd given her credit for; of course she'd had time now to come to terms with what he'd brought to her unknowing, but she didn't even hesitate. _The dragon_.

"She said, his home was attacked and his family threatened by a sorceress, for revenge. So Kilgarrah and I came immediately."

"How far is Merlin?" Hunith said – to him, but looking at the queen as she spoke. "How long til he-"

"More than a day, riding," Annis answered before he could. "I've asked if the dragon could bring Morgana, if she's closer – that might be a shock to her, our messenger won't have had time to reach them-"

"If Acollyn lets her," Hunith said, interjecting without seeming to interrupt once again. It staggered him a bit to see how familiar she was with a queen, how involved in these important lives without hint of the self-consciousness he remembered from Ealdor.

She had changed also in the time they'd been apart, and for the better, he could guess. It made him ashamed for the years in Merendra…

"Um," he said, and even though neither was speaking, _that_ was an interruption. Both women looked at him, and he knew after the first shock of his arrival they would be evaluating him for different reasons, and for some the same. And he knew he'd fall short, just – hopefully – not _very_ soon. "The dragon won't leave, he claims he's where he needs to be…" He pointed, though they couldn't see Kilgarrah; he was beyond the opposite cliffside where the two of them had spent the night.

"He went to the fortress?" the queen demanded.

In the general direction, anyway, but he was still moving, to Balinor's attention, so, "Patrolling? Watching from the sky."

Hunith took a breath and let it out like that relieved her, turning to the queen to reassure that relief. Annis caught the sense of that and understood more than Balinor did.

"If he's large enough for this man to _ride_ , he's too large to enter the fortress. Even if he could land in the bailey… and there are the servants to consider, the people of Hanbury…"

Hunith nodded acceptance, reaching to wipe silent tears with her fingers.

"This witch has hostages?" Balinor guessed.

That was a great deal more complicated than, she'd taken the fortress and driven them out. In that case, if they wouldn't move offensively without Merlin, it wouldn't make significant difference to wait for him another day. She'd have time to lay enchantments and prepare for their attack but since Kilgarrah would keep himself remote from their observation, she couldn't expect _them_ , and that could turn the battle in their favor easily. He and Kilgarrah could lead the charge and the moment the witch exposed herself, they would be between her and everyone Balinor loved, and-

"She has the princess," Annis said bluntly.

Understanding didn't penetrate immediately. Hunith added, "Merlin told you he's married? And she is probably-"

 _Oh_. His son was a prince, and so his wife was called _princess_ -

"Carrying his child."

They knew. It was confirmed. And, _she has the princess_.

He looked at them. "You left the girl behind with the witch in your stronghold?"

Two more tears rolled silently down Hunith's face – and now she looked the woman she was, and not the girl she'd been. Tired, and worried.

He whirled, taking two steps to bellow out, _Kilgarrah! You told me she was safe!_

Behind him Annis snapped, "Not by choice. We had no one who could oppose the witch but Freya locked herself in a room that has residual protective magic on it-"

 _She remains unharmed_ , Kilgarrah answered. _Merlin's magic separate her from her enemy._

He could not help hearing, For now.

"Protective magic?" Balinor said, turning again. "Tell me."

The women spoke at once, detailing what they remembered of several spells Merlin and his tutor – Balinor couldn't decide if he hated this Alator from jealousy, or if he was eternally indebted to the man – had placed on the room and the door. Walls, ceiling, floor, window. And the ones they inferred but didn't know for certain, and Balinor found himself pacing, holding his arms tight-folded across his chest, shaking his head.

"What?" the queen said bluntly, after they'd fallen silent.

"If he didn't do anything specifically to protect someone within the room against someone like the witch," Balinor said. "If he only meant to protect those outside from accidental harm coming from within the room…" His throat tightened. "It's only a matter of time."

And time had passed since that magic had been laid, weakened through disuse and lack of need…

He swore aloud, stopping in place and looking toward the point on the horizon that hid the fortress, just as the sun spread its first rays through the sky and over the ground.

"What are we going to do?" Hunith asked – calmly, but with a catch in her voice.

He wanted to turn and gather her in his arms again and comfort her, but he couldn't. He had no right to presume, to initiate, to guess her desire for such. And in any case, he hadn't yet earned the right to assuage his own anxiety with the comfort she'd always given him, every embrace saying, you're loved, you're wanted, you're not alone…

"She's still safe now," he said. "Kilgarrah says the magic separating them holds."

"And when it doesn't?" the queen said, all controlled intensity and he recognized that Merlin had learned from this woman who claimed him as her son, also.

"Then do I have permission to tear your tower apart in pursuit of the witch?" he said, facing them.

Hunith didn't say anything – not a protest, not an agreement – she only looked at Annis. Who said, "There are villagers taking refuge on the northwest side of the tower on the lowest level above ground. Do nothing that endangers them. Otherwise… do what you can."

"Understood." He gave her a formal little bow that surprised even him, it felt entirely natural, and included Hunith in that expression of his feelings.

She lifted one hand and opened her mouth but he spun away, suddenly afraid of what she might say and how he might react.

There was the man who held Balinor's sword. He strode to him – the sentry offered the weapon without hesitation – and he sheathed it in his stride.

 _Kilgarrah! Come for me – we do this together!_

…..*….. …..*….. …..*….. …..*….. …..*…..

Merlin's eyes ached from weariness, and from trying to see further than he could; a mist-wrapped morning had given way to a persistent gray drizzle that _lasted_.

His mouth was sour and his throat hurt when he swallowed. He hadn't slept much or well and had risen before the other two woke, deliberately making noise as he set out a traveler's breakfast and packed the rest, so they could wake and join him. So they couldn't later accuse him of deliberately slipping away without them, because he was completely disinclined to wait, no matter what Arthur said about making the choices that were at hand, and not borrowing trouble for the future.

He was tired, and he was cranky, and he was sore, though his muscles warmed and loosened as he set the pace afoot, the same as the previous day, letting Mordred ride his gelding again. Maybe he'd make that gift permanent. As an apology; it was partly his fault that the druid boy had cause to anticipate specific trouble for his own future.

Early that morning when they'd left their campsite, Merlin had wrapped his indigo cloak around himself, eyebrows and chin, as a barrier against the droplets of moisture lingering in the air. It was damp and heavy by midday and he couldn't move his head freely, so he didn't bother meeting the glances Arthur sent over and down at him whenever they reached open and level ground and the horses could draw even with him.

He knew he looked sullen. He felt sullen.

Dread coiled in his belly, restless and uncertain, twisting in search of reassurance and there was none. His stomach was pinched, his ribs creaked to expand unnaturally on a growing hollow feeling. Like the inhalation before a scream of sheer nerves, frustration and terror, only the scream never came and the inhalation wouldn't _stop_ … He was dizzy with too much air inside him, and none of it felt fresh or invigorating. The whole world smelled of damp earth like a freshly-opened grave.

"Merlin," Arthur said. It wasn't the first time the other prince had spoken his name that morning, but it was the first he gave his attention to.

The tone was different. It wasn't personal or emotional – _Merlin are you all right, Merlin shouldn't we rest, Merlin you can't keep going like this, Merlin if you need to talk…_

He didn't pause his forward momentum, though, turning his head – damn damp cloak wrapping his neck – to mark Arthur's observance of their left flank. There was movement between the two hills, the large and sluggish suggestion of shifting landscape that he interpreted the same way as Arthur must have – a body of men moving more or less together.

His foot stumbled slightly over an unnoticed rock as he strode forward while watching them to the side. He and his companions had crossed into Caerleon two hours after dawn and he thought he wasn't wrong in placing their position now almost halfway to Beckon Cove. Which meant that Landsdown lay to the east on their left flank. And if Beckon Cove had been able to send messengers with a call to arms, those were Lord Baldwyn's men.

That implied that Beckon Cove had recognized the threat days ago. Merlin shuddered involuntarily, imagining his family's distress in his absence. What could any of _them_ do against a _witch_?

He put his head down and broke into a steady, ground-eating jog. The dread thumped against the inward side of his breastbone like a war-drum.

"You're not going to stop and meet them?" Arthur called.

Merlin ignored him. Perhaps it would be the appropriate thing to do – as the crown prince, he had concern for the treatment of all of his someday subjects, and the rude reputation of Caerleon was something most always reserved for outsiders.

At least Arthur's presence steadied him. At least when the other prince insisting on fighting with him, he knew that the sword gave him protection and advantage. And even if he'd never ask Mordred to fight with him, the boy could presumably defend himself against magic. Lord Baldwyn's men couldn't help, they could only die. And distract and delay him, when his overwhelming concern was for Freya.

 _Freya, Freya, Freya_ , thumped the dread, echoing his heartbeat.

And if the witch didn't curse her unawares, if she sent some greater threat like she'd sent the rowan tree or Cenred's mercenaries, there would be others to stand in her way, protecting Freya. Hunith, Annis… Thurston, Tythan…

He was aware that Arthur had wheeled his gray stallion away to the left flank, taking it upon himself to meet the troop. And if he introduced himself by name, he still had royally-granted safe passage, but Merlin rather thought he wouldn't bother with the risk.

"We've come a long way," Mordred ventured. It seemed he'd gained enough confidence for audible speech today, at least.

Merlin's gelding had quickened pace to remain at his other side; Merlin didn't turn his head to acknowledge the boy, saving the breath of his reply for the incline under his feet.

"We're much closer now. It won't be long? And if you expect to fight the witch, maybe you should…"

His words faded in Merlin's ears as he crested the hill and lifted his eyes from his footing to the next stretch of their journey – which was more or less blocked by another group of men. Decorated with indigo as warriors of Caerleon were – cloaks and hoods and veils, leather armor with metal, a variety of weapons at hips and over backs as they strode along.

"Bloody _hells_!" Merlin slowed, cursing aloud and bitterly. A different sort of frustration smothered the dread without killing it, causing it to wind in on itself, sinking from his chest to the pit of his stomach. A new attack of agitation, rather than surrender.

"Those are your men, too?" Mordred asked.

Merlin started forward again without answering him, hustling down the back side of the hill they'd just climbed. No way he could skirt this company without being seen, that would add at least half of an hour to his traveling time, but now he'd have to allow this group – probably the other one also – to attach themselves to him, and then they'd all be slowed by sheer numbers… _Dammit!_

They might be from Penrows. They might be from Cryskirk. They might be from…

Noticing him and Mordred, the men in the rear called forward, and their messy, uncoordinated march halted to allow their leader to pass through the ranks and wait for Merlin to reach them.

The man was shorter than Merlin and about as broad, though he was a couple of decades older. His hood was let fall down his back to show a nearly-shaven head with a dirty bristle of hair, his face unveiled to reveal the same scruff on his jaw. There was a scar on the left side of his face, thick and obvious but distinguishing, not disfiguring. He wore boiled-leather armor, breastplate and vambraces, and gave Merlin a keen once-over, head to heels and back up again. He spared a puzzled glance for Mordred on Merlin's gelding, then seemed to dismiss the mounted boy as unimportant.

"Ferdrinck of Orkan-broch," he said.

"Merlin of Beckon Cove," he answered, and couldn't help the challenge in his tone. At his wedding, a few short months ago, the lords and warriors from farther-flung estates were still sneering open skepticism, and he was no longer a child to duck his head and blush over perceived shortcomings.

But Ferdrinck only nodded, unconditional acceptance. "Sir Gwaine is a friend of yours."

That gave his restless thoughts pause. It seemed so long ago since he'd last seen Gwaine - there in Beckon Cove, after the fruitless trip to Merendra, receiving the message that parted them…

"He's not a knight," Merlin said randomly. Ferdrinck grunted and shrugged, and that said enough for Merlin. "His lady mother?"

Ferdrinck shook his head. "Illness and old age finally took her. Gwaine set out four days ago to follow what was reported to us to be a significant army of Saxons headed south."

Hells. _Saxons_. Because Morgause didn't attack _by herself_.

"We took a few days to organize Orkan-broch for our absence and followed in case we were needed."

Merlin shifted to let his eyes follow the approach of the second group, tacitly led by Arthur and one other man on horseback, but his focus had reverted to Ismere. Hadn't he said, _I expected more of them_? And they never really answered the indirect queries on the subject of their numbers.

Damn it all to… bloody hell. She'd been there, hadn't she? Morgause. The witch who threatened Freya for his sake had been _right there_. Of course she'd gathered an army around herself, again, making promises or doing favors for enough loyalty and incentive to lead them as a distraction while she performed her filthy dark magic…

He'd been right there. But for a trick of timing and a very short distance, they might have discovered each other and fought there. Someplace remote, far away from Beckon Cove and his family.

Someplace Arthur and Mordred would have been in danger, for their proximity to him. Not having had the chance to choose another path…

Like all these people. All his people, dragging and drowning him in their expectations and needs, and that was not a burden he could hurry with and fight under. He could barely struggle under the weight, he'd sink and be strangled with his dread because _someone_ would die. Many might die. Maybe they already had…

"Prince Merlin," someone said, swift and confident.

He blinked to realize that Arthur and the other man had arrived and dismounted, every movement snapping with urgency – every movement exaggerated and elongated like they were all underwater, drowning each other with tedious conversation and endless protocol.

The other man, short but disheveled hair of steel gray and silver-white, squint-wrinkles pierced by ice-blue eyes, stocky and strong, reached a square hand in greeting. "Baldwyn of Landsdown. Your companion tells me you're responding to news of a witch? and it's likely that she and the reported Saxons form one threat."

Merlin ignored the hand. He'd met Baldwyn before, but had no patience for recollection. In the moment, the older lord wore the ghost of a sardonic smirk, the condescension of a seasoned warrior for an untried boy who outranked him.

Ferdrinck prompted him with marginally-greater deference, a captain rather than a noble. "My lord?"

Hells. Merlin was bogged with these men and their men and he'd never reach Beckon Cove in time, provided he wasn't too late already. He struggled to breathe, drawing air into his lungs deliberately, dread locked in an unmoving tangle inside him – _persuade them to listen to me without the weight of Tythan's presence or the king's regard, persuade them to obey rather than waste time arguing tactics or strategy and am I even sure that my orders will be the right ones, the clever ones, expedient and safe or will I be a rubbish leader and make a hash of it and lose… and lose…_

Arthur shifted his weight without saying a word, but Merlin's attention shifted also and he met his friend's steady gaze. Quiet confidence, willingness to follow though he was nearer his own crown than Merlin was to Thurston's… Maybe he still questioned himself and his own judgment, but just now there was nothing but faith in Merlin.

And he'd done this. Those recollections flashed fast and bright through Merlin's mind, his time in Camelot. Arthur's leadership, understated but sharp-clear in the response of his knights – the patrol that Merlin had surrendered to, the night they'd battled mercenaries in Camelot's lower town, the unit who'd accompanied them to the Forest of Essetir…

He blinked and breathed once, strong and free. He looked at Baldwyn, he looked at Ferdrinck.

And pushed between them to start forward again. Pushed between all the fighters Orkan-broch had assembled.

"I'm not waiting for anyone," he stated clearly. "Form up on me if you're coming. And stay out of my way, I've got enemies to _slaughter_."

Two of his own striding footfalls he heard as the fighters shuffled to clear his way, before snickers and murmurs covered the sound of his boots. Someone quipped, "And heaven help the Saxons…"

Someone else said, "I wouldn't bet on it…"

And they were all moving, somewhere behind him but following _with_ him. The low grumble of thunder that betrayed unevenly marching men and a handful of horses surged purposefully, carrying him forward with the new energy of urgency. An equine shape moved into the corner of his vision and he turned his head without minding the cloak to look up at Arthur, who was facing forward. Half of a proud smile was visible on his face.

Merlin broke into a jog again and the chorus of boots pounding stony ground increased just that much.

The witch was going to rue the day she dared set foot in Caerleon.

…..*….. …..*….. …..*….. …..*….. …..*…..

Gwaine turned the pages of the book open over his left thigh absently, scanning illustrations but not bothering to try to read when he didn't understand one word in three, anyway. Educational books in a magic-user's schoolroom.

He'd tipped a chair back against the door to keep contact – there was no sound from without but increasingly frequent tremors. His gaze retreated slightly from the yellowing page to his own palm and a narrow red mark at the base of his thumb. Almost a week since he'd made the cut, and it was sealed and fading.

 _You said to tell you if I thought of a way I could trust you not to run away from me…_

Princess Freya – she'd told him twice not to use her title or any formal address – had been attempting to distract Gareth from their situation with various books from the shelves, beginning now to pile up on the table, and the boy's interest was definitely fading. By the light from the high, un-openable window, it was well past noon. None of them had needed their chamber-vase for hours, now.

"I'm hungry," Gareth said into the stillness of the room.

His boots dangled off the chair, not even kicking at the legs of the furniture anymore. It was the third or fourth time he'd said it, but Gwaine rather thought the complaint unintentional. Blurted involuntarily because it was the only thing on the boy's mind.

Freya had her chin in her hand, leaning on the table beside him, staring into the air and her thoughts. She took no obvious notice of Gareth's words – not that the boy had actually intended them to address his concern. He knew there was nothing to be done.

In the long pauses between the rippling tremors of the door, Gwaine wondered how they'd know if Merlin showed up to fight Morgause. If they couldn't hear anything from outside the room. Maybe it was their friends knocking and knocking, telling them the victory feast was ready and hot… _we're not going to wait if you're not coming out… come on, now, there won't be much left if you don't…_

He couldn't help figuring that a triumphant Merlin would have no problem dismantling his own magic and that of his tutor, to reach his trapped and frightened bride.

The door rattled on its hinges, violently enough to make Gwaine startle, and have to put one boot down to the floor to keep from unbalancing his chair. It settled, but he braced himself and met Freya's eyes. Gareth was looking at him, too, mouth opened and tired eyes wide with alarm.

"I was thinking," Freya said, and her voice wasn't completely steady. "I can't remember that Merlin ever had occasion to place magic specific to keep a sorcerous enemy outside this room. It was just, general protection… And it's been quite a while since they did it, so-"

 _Heat_ radiated through the door like a blast of air from an opened baker's oven, and Gwaine flinched away like his skin might be scalded through his clothing and borrowed armor. On his feet, hand gripping the hilt of his sword across his body, he tensed, feeling the ache in his side from his last altercation with the witch.

 _This might be it, everyone._

"Tip the table over," he told Freya calmly over his shoulder, eyes fixed to the door. "Then both of you get behind it."

 _Are we going to see a battle, then? Are you going to fight? Are we going to see magic?_

Maybe Morgause had exhausted herself and her magic, trying all night to get through the door. Maybe the other warriors had set up some ambush to distract her at the precise moment she broke through the door… He sent one last glance around the room for inspiration, and received none. None to face a _magical_ enemy, anyway.

 _Thud!_

That was the table, though the sound made him jump and check the door again. He could hear Gareth's voice and Freya's responding, and couldn't tell if his nephew was bravely protesting the need to hide, or seeking reassurance for overwhelming terror.

A hissing sound, like grease heating in a pan – and the hinges began to melt, the metal sagging and then dripping down the door like wax down a candle, onto the stone of the floor.

Gwaine stepped to the side of the door, behind the seat he'd abandoned. He drew his sword and set his stance, focus narrowing like it always did when he had the time and chance to anticipate the fight. He'd probably only get one clear shot at taking her by surprise when she entered; reaching to the high back of the chair with his off hand, he tipped it up onto one leg and balanced it in readiness.

Steady… steady…

Gareth whimpered, but neither he nor Freya showed themselves around the tabletop shielding them.

 _My squire and my student, til the day I die – I will protect you with my life…_

 _I promise not to run away. Or make you mad by disobeying._

 _Or cry, unless I can't help it…_

With an explosive burst of air, the door blew inward – crooked – tilted on its bottom corner against the frame. It weight drew it sliding – scraping – down, a horrible sound in the shattered stillness.

Gwaine strained to hear the footfall that would signal the witch's entrance. She wasn't stupid. She'd expect them to be ready, to try something; she'd be aware and alert-

Movement. He let go of the chair, which crashed across the doorway – hopefully drawing her attention just long enough-

He lunged out, blindly stabbing with his sword, ready to turn the motion into a slash, anything to sheathe the blade in her body.

It stuck like he'd tried to stab the door itself, jarring up his arm as his elbow bent under his momentum. The point was making a dent in earth-colored peasant fabric, just below her last rib on her right flank. Just where his own side ached, maybe.

He focused on that inch of fabric, aware of sweat-stringy blonde curls and wild black-rimmed eyes, willing that point to slide, to give, to _pierce_ … but it didn't.

"Dammit," he managed, pushing against his sword's blade-guard even though he knew it was useless.

She swayed back a half-step, still in the doorway, her hand covering the material of her stolen peasant's dress. "That actually hurt a little," she said to him with all the threatening malevolence of cracking lightning and striking snake-fang. "You will regret it."

Her hand twitched away from her ribs and his body was weightless. Airborne like a leaf in a storm, the room twisting round him with nothing to catch hold of til he struck the shelf full of vessels and training apparatus, folding his outstretched limbs violently. Like he'd fallen off the roof of the great hall of his boyhood home, through a window, to slam against frost-hardened ground.

He couldn't breathe. Someone was screaming his name.

The shelf tipped, raining pottery and glass and metal down on him – he couldn't move to roll away, to cover his face, his neck, his-

The whole structure came crashing down on him in a cacophony of noise and pain and vicious movement, before-

Everything stopped. And there was nothing.

 **A/N: Sorry-not-sorry for the ending of this chapter. I did warn it was going to be several cliffies in a row til this is all resolved…**


	18. More Fierce Than Fire

**Chapter 18: More Fierce Than Fire**

Freya flinched at the crash of the school-room door, the sound of their last defense failing, followed almost immediately by another smashing sound of furniture. Gareth trembled in her arms; she heard Gwaine's voice and was momentarily reassured.

Then the witch's voice rose, precise and cruel, and panic rose swift and overwhelming.

"You will regret it."

Something large and heavy flew through the air, not quite above their heads, colliding violently with one of the shelves at the side of the room. She ducked lower as bits of glass and pottery rained down, and gathered the boy-squire closer to shield him. Something bit into her wrist, into the side of her leg by her knee, and Gareth was whimpering involuntarily with each breath. She wished she had magic. In that moment she would gladly have accepted every risk associated with a portal, to whisk both of them somewhere else, somewhere safe.

She had time to draw breath once, and the shelf itself tipped and collapsed, splintering wood and shattering the rest of the vessels and pieces. She felt the reverberations in the floor, through the table they were crouched behind.

"Well," the witch said with vindictive pleasure. "That took care of _him_."

Freya's heart plummeted downward, and it was all so much empty space inside her. But Gareth scrambled away – she reached too late to snatch a handful of clothing to hold him back.

"You're an evil witch!" he screamed, surging to his childish height as soon as he was out from behind the table. "And I hate you!"

"You're a ridiculous child," the woman answered.

Freya was on her feet without considering the coordination of limbs required for the action, cold with fear that the witch would _do something_ to Gareth. Even as those fierce eyes turned to focus on her, the boy darted across the room toward the witch at the door.

He was going to _attack_ her? With his fists and feet? Freya followed, one hand on the upturned table-top to keep her balance, spinning out from cover to chase him down and stop him.

Gwaine's sword was on the floor, between Gareth and the high-backed chair tumbled to its side, physically providing some small barrier to the witch's entrance, but-

She had _magic_. A wave of her hand cleared the chair, startling Gareth long enough for Freya to catch him – thin little body, lithe and wiry, heaving with soft sobbing breaths. The movement of the chair drew her attention to the side where Gwaine's legs sprawled motionless beneath the tilted, cracked shelving and the broken mess.

Holy heaven, she hoped he wasn't-

"See to Gwaine," she hissed in the boy's ear, turning his shoulders to direct him. "Go to him, your kinsman needs you."

He twisted to give her a look over his shoulder, alarm and consideration and she thought, _You can't protect me, dear boy, I won't let you_ … But he nodded once and circled behind the shelf, on his knees and trying to burrow his way into the wreckage to get closer to Gwaine.

Good enough for now.

Freya faced the witch, smirking and triumphant and confident of control, and felt the same temptation of emotion that Gareth had expressed _. I hate you_.

She marched right up to the older woman, reaching to shove her out of the room – out of sight, out of mind – away from Gareth and away from Gwaine, if he'd survived. "You _will_ leave the children alone!"

The witch paid no attention to her low-growled demand, but didn't let Freya touch her, snatching the wrist that already hurt and slapping her other hand away three times. Freya didn't care, and used the woman's hold on her as well as her own momentum to bring them both through the empty doorway to the corridor her senses told her was deserted.

"Children have been casualties of their parents' wars before now," she commented, careless and intense at once.

Freya jerked at the hold on her wrist; the woman didn't let go, but allowed Freya to tug them several steps down the hall, away from the school-room, toward the stair leading downward again. Freya was afraid any moment would bring Gareth with Gwaine's sword hurtling toward them, and wanted once again to get herself as the focus of the witch's vengeance away from anyone else.

The woman allowed it, following but holding back Freya's desired hurry with her twisting, burning grip. "You are a very plain thing, you know," she observed. "Young and inexperienced and _innocent_."

She spoke the word like it tasted foul, and Freya paused on a lower stair to lean on the wall and look at her. Such darkness in her eyes. Was that cause or effect of the black magic Merlin had described?

"What would a warrior of Caerleon, royal-raised and a sorcerer, see in you?" the witch continued, as if genuinely curious.

Freya bit her tongue on a defense of _love_ , expecting incomprehension and mockery.

"You can't possibly provide satisfactory sport in the bedroom," the witch said callously. "Your spirit is like… a spark on the hearth. When my sister told me about you, about your curse-"

The way she said it made memories flash - thrashing in the pain that twisted her bones and stretched her muscles, endless guilt and shame…

"I thought maybe something of that lingered," the witch said, swaying closer and looking her over, inhaling as if to take in Freya's scent, somehow. "Something wild and violent and dark. But there's nothing left of it, is there? You're _nothing_ but a milkmaid."

"Baker's assistant," Freya retorted, to convince both of them that she wasn't trembling with fear. "And, you don't know anything about me."

"Don't I?" The witch laughed, forced her to keep descending the stair.

"You know Merlin isn't here," Freya tried. She'd never save herself by betraying him, she'd never tell the witch where to find him if she even knew, herself, but as long as she wasn't being ripped limb from limb, she'd try anything to get rid of the woman.

"Coward," she pronounced, as if her opinion was fact. "His spirit is a spark on the hearth, also, after all. He doesn't deserve my sister-"

"Your sister is married," Freya interrupted confusedly, stumbling as they reached the bottom of the stair.

Still no people. She hadn't expected servants to be roaming about their chores, not with the witch's dangerous and uncertain presence, but there were no fighters, no guards and no watchers. Had the woman killed or enchanted them? Had they abandoned the tower entirely, or maybe they'd been ordered not to risk a confrontation? For them, Freya was glad if that was the case. For herself, she thought she might be glad of the distraction of the witch's attention…

"He _protected_ Uther Pendragon. He _collaborated with_ Arthur Pendragon." Sins of the lowest order, but her tone. "He turned my ally, my _sister_ , against me, and he will regret it."

That seemed to be a focus for her, regret. Freya had no time to consider why that might be important; they were coming down a long corridor which would open into the great hall. Behind one set of doors lay the feasting-chamber where the wounded had been cared for – behind another was the open air of the bailey.

"What are you doing?" she couldn't help saying. Wasn't knowing better than imagining? "Where are we going?"

"I'm going to destroy him," the witch told her with an arch smile, pausing in the center of the hall. Afternoon daylight filtered diffuse, no direct rays penetrated any windows, but no other sources of illumination had been lit. "Not his body – he uses the same defensive spells as I do, and those are tedious and boring to penetrate. Not his body, not right away. First his heart-" She twisted Freya's arm up into the air at a painful angle. "Then his mind. First you, then anyone else he cares about. Ever cared about. I will break him – break his heart and his will with the death of his destiny's partner."

Freya gaped. That sounded so momentous, even for someone as powerful and significant as Merlin. She was sure, that was never _her_ …

"When his world and his plans and hopes lie in ashes around him, I'll let him catch me and then we will fight to the death. His death."

Behind her, Freya noticed that one of the doors to the feast-hall stood ajar. There was light in the room, betraying movement at the door. Attention at least, and depending on who was watching them-

The witch forced her to move again, toward the outside door, and Freya took advantage of the moment to wave a negative signal and scowl toward that door. No one should risk themselves; it really would do no good, if she used something like Merlin's spell to protect herself.

"Where are we going?" she said again, trying to resist as much as she could. Denying cooperation as much as she dared.

"Well, I can't just kill you," the witch said, as if exasperated with Freya's stupidity in having to ask. "That's too easy. Too quick and clean. Of course he'll mourn his loss, but I'm after his _devastation_. How do you think he'll feel when he discovers your body used by the Saxons for all manner of entertainment before abandonment and slow agony stops your heart and breath? Just as he appears on the horizon and sees you. Maybe just after you glimpse him coming, if I can manage it."

Freya stopped as the witch turned attention and energy to swinging open the heavy outer door. She was sick to her stomach, faint with disbelieving fear. It might seem impossible, except – did the woman know _how_ Freya had been cursed? Merlin would not have said, but had she herself ever mentioned to Morgana, the cause for the curse so many years ago?

And yet so few. That memory was stark, too – another witch's son, when she was little more than a child, herself. The look in his eyes, beady in a grimy, unshaven face, as they dropped from her face to her body. The way he licked his lips and leered, the way he touched her – at once trying to reassure her, he meant no harm, and to persuade her to surrender herself to his use to avoid provoking that harm…

She'd struggled, and cried out. No one came, and he was strong. And he was heavy. And she couldn't keep his hands away, couldn't stop him ripping the clothing that was her last protection – touching her. Adjusting his own clothing to invade her intimately, as he loomed over her, pining her down and crushing breath out of her, life out of her-

This time they'd go through with it. No magic would burst out of her, a sudden and violent and unexpected _past_ -last defense. At least, not more than once… They'd take her and use her again and again and again, as many men as wanted to, and more than once if they wanted to. And what about the possibility of tiny life inside her?

She closed her eyes and wished she could fly away. Without killing anyone, but without pain and humiliation and wondering – _knowing_ – how it would hurt Merlin to discover…

They were out the door and down the stairs and daylight was obscured by low gray clouds. The rock of the bailey ground glistened sharp points all around. Maybe she could throw herself down, dash her head against them, cut into her veins, her throat, end it here and now-

"Please," she choked, pulling and stumbling because pulling didn't free her. "Please, you're a woman, too. How could you-"

The witch flashed her a glare over her shoulder, stalking forward toward the gate, and Freya caught a bit of understanding. Somewhere in her past was something like this. The intimacy that was beautiful and sweet with someone you love twisted and priced and _used_ til it held no meaning for the witch - except as another tool or weapon.

Freya resolved to go down fighting, instead. To forget her captive arm and the defensive spell and attack with her feet and her fist, knees and teeth if she had to, and never stop til the woman let her go or killed her. Even, to sit and refuse to move her legs as a stubborn child might do-

Maybe she could scoop up a rock. Maybe there were men at the gate and they'd have weapons – a knife would be better than a rock for ending her own life.

 _You're an evil witch, and I despise you_. Her heart was thudding in her ears, breath whistling through tattered lungs and curling coldly around the emptiness behind her ribs.

"What is-" The witch twisted around with sudden alarm, and darkness descended like an impalpable blanket overhead.

Freya's wrist was wrenched and her feet left the ground-

And she blacked out.

…..*….. …..*….. …..*….. …..*….. …..*…..

Balinor broke his night's fast in the air. He ate the midday meal in the air, also.

There was an uncomfortable tension all around him, like anticipated lightning, but the clouds and intermittent drizzle were the wrong kind of weather for natural violence. His eyes stung as they flew and more than once he found himself squinting blindly, unable to see anything but himself and Kilgarrah. He began to wish that he had some sort of helmet that could protect them; he began to wish there was some sort of padding to protect his seat and legs – some sort of strapping where he could secure his long leather-and-fur coat when it was soaked and heavy.

He began to wish that Kilgarrah was a more pleasant companion. Not for the first time, and probably not for the last.

The great dragon ignored most of his questions, even when he threatened to command answers. He would only say, _Your daughter is safe_.

So Balinor was forced to lean out of his uncomfortably uncertain position and squint his watering eyes downward and wait for enough of a break in the low-lying clouds that he could see the ground below them.

The queen and her people kept to the cliffs and the pass, which was all right; he and Kilgarrah were basically acting as their scouts. No discernible movement from inside the irregularly-shaped wall of the fortress. If there were defenders present, they were maintaining position, not scurrying about.

The Saxons broke camp sometime midmorning. Balinor wondered, why so late? But then, if the witch was the impetus of the attack, maybe they were uncertain without orders.

But then, if the witch had breached the walls, why weren't the Saxons inside also?

The only thing he could think was, she'd seen her chance and taken it, abandoning temporary allies and their concerns, whatever greedy promises had initially brought them into Caerleon. He wondered if they realized that, if they realized that their position grew more tenuous the longer they remained inside Caerleon, and outside that fortress. If they couldn't hit hard and immediately and gain their plunder and retreat, they were going to have to hope that they could split up and return individually to regroup at Ismere with a profit – or take the fortress, hold it and negotiate a conditional surrender that was worth their bother. Balinor was grimly amused to think of their negligent chances for that.

He had the feeling more than once, that there was fighting at the gate, at other points along the eastern wall, but couldn't support those suspicions with evidence from his senses. The body of Saxons dark and agitated against the stony approach neither diminished nor disappeared – which meant the gates and wall were being held against them, and successfully.

Perhaps they weren't risking themselves by trying very hard because they expected their witch to let them in.

 _What say we land in the courtyard?_ Balinor proposed, when the supply-bag over his shoulder was emptied of edibles, and the midday meal was more memory than satisfaction. Soon now the daylight would dim toward early dark and then he, at least, would see nothing that wasn't fire.

Kilgarrah ignored the question.

Balinor growled irritably to himself, and continued. _Maybe the witch will consider us a threat to be dealt with before her victory can be complete, and leave off trying to get at the girl._

It occurred to him, either the witch was weak – and therefore possibly mad, to attempt this attack – or his son's magic, even unintentional and long-past, was strong, or tenacious, or extremely protective.

 _The witch has used the_ astyre-me-thaneonward _spell to travel by portals_ , Kilgarrah informed him absently, as though the bulk of his attention was directed elsewhere. _If we show ourselves, she will not come out at all. She will take the princess far from here in a moment, and time will be lost discovering where, and traveling to intercept her_.

And then perhaps she would merely open another portal and escape again, with Merlin's expectant wife in her dubious care. Balinor shivered in the clinging damp, reaching to shove his hand through his hair, sodden and blown back. She'd have to be strong enough for that portal, then, and mad enough to risk using it.

Kilgarrah's body twitched. He lifted his head, angling his flight upward and exhaling a breath that didn't carry the full force of his fire, but Balinor had to duck smoke and sparks.

 _What is it?_

The dragon ignored him again, and he made a noise of impatience. At least there was no danger of any spark catching, with every bit of both of them soaked.

Looking down and further than the walled fortress and the druids' cliffs, he thought he glimpsed – blinked moisture away and squinted again, shifting for a view uninterrupted by the dragon's wings, straining upward and upward – two separate bands of traveling people.

One coming from the direction of Camelot's border, the other from pretty much due north. He spared a thought for Merlin's probable location… but if Kilgarrah would not land inside the fortress walls, Balinor could be of no help. He could not land elsewhere and fight his way through the Saxons and hope for admittance. And neither of them would retreat to the queen's position with the conflict undecided.

Kilgarrah seemed to reach the peak of his climb. The sails of his wings quivered as they glided, and he thought for the first time, how difficult for an old dragon to fly so long under such conditions, and carry a human man the while. And without complaining. And put up with questions… though if Kilgarrah knew the answers and anticipated Balinor reacting with _commands_ …

Yeah, he'd do that. Maybe he had the right, since Balinor's _orders_ meant Kilgarrah no longer had a choice.

Then the dragon's muscles shifted, and his focus sharpened, and with only those fine particulars for warning, Balinor plastered himself to the scales, hanging on from toes to fingers as-

Kilgarrah tucked his wings and _dropped_.

All of Balinor's organs lifted inside him and pushed into the back of his throat. He couldn't breathe – water streamed along his face and he blinked constantly as they plummeted, fighting for the air that was fighting to pluck him up and fling him away. The dragon extended his wings carefully, not breaking the speed of their plunge only directing its course – then scooped suddenly and strongly at the air to increase pace.

 _Hells. Damn. What?..._ It was an attack, he knew instinctively; Kilgarrah wouldn't perform this maneuver for _fun_.

Beyond the dragon's outstretched jaw – and he was glad he couldn't see Kilgarrah's expression; it must be inhumanly fierce – he marked the wall and and tower. Not below them, but far ahead of them and approaching fast… too fast to be able to land safely…

Teeth clenched, Balinor said other, worse words and didn't care if the dragon could hear him.

Something was different about the courtyard – the bailey. He blinked. Someone was crossing it.

 _Blink_. Two figures.

 _Blink_. Female, by their clothing.

 _Blink_. The blonde had the other by the arm and resistance was written all over the dark-haired girl, and he knew them, recognized them without conscious realization. The witch and the princess. Both of them startled, but too late – they were on top of the pair. Kilgarrah's claws stretched-

Snatched-

The air pressed him down into the scaly body; moments before he'd been struggling to maintain enough contact not to be airborne alone and falling without wings. Balinor shifted his seat with difficulty and looked down.

Her colorless hair streamed out behind her head. Dark eyes rimmed with panicked white and her mouth gasping as the air streamed by too fast and hard for breath, for words. Her arms flapped as she tried to gesture-

Tried to fling magic and utter spells, and she was helpless and Balinor reveled in the feeling of satisfaction. _See how it feels, witch_.

She met his eyes; she was terrified.

He had no idea if she could communicate without verbalization, but he addressed her – _I am the last dragonlord. Merlin is my son. And the princess carries his child. And they will live long and contented lives, while you_ -

Kilgarrah let out another blast of hot, charry air, and let go.

Balinor was not entirely prepared for that. He gulped to fill his own lungs and couldn't; his hair tried to stand up on his scalp.

She fell away from them, smaller by the second, and he expected a long, wailing scream… but it never came. No breath to catch, no words to save her, no time to think of some spell-

He twisted to watch behind them. The drab brown of her clothing blended into the landscape, but he was quite sure he glimpsed the spread of yellow hair against the dark wet rock far below.

…..*….. …..*….. …..*….. …..*….. …..*…..

Morgana had tried twice to contact Merlin or the dragon, but without success. Either they couldn't hear her for the distance, or she wasn't properly focused for sending. If it was ladylike to wager, she'd probably put her money on the latter.

Another messenger had arrived from Queen Annis at nightfall, and she wasn't quite sure what to make of the disparate messages. The dragon's _We will handle this_ contrasted with Annis' _Desire your presence as swiftly as can possibly be managed…_

One sent before the other was received.

And Arthur still traveling, beyond reach of expedient contact for permission to cross borders, even in time of crisis and at the request of another royal.

Morgana didn't sleep well. It was a good thing Acollyn did; he was up hours before daybreak, striking their camp and assembling a swift but satisfactory escort. This did not include Finna, and therefore Morgana was finding it difficult to concentrate on the longer-range communication by magic. Perhaps it was also the lack of sleep. And general agitation.

"Please try to calm down," Acollyn suggested with a sympathetic lift of his eyebrows. They rode side by side with one of Trevena's knights a stone's throw in advance, acting scout for the party, but she wasn't easy in her saddle; she was tense on the reins and making her mare nervous with shifting impatiently.

She couldn't help throwing him a glare.

He added, "I know it feels impossible, and I _know_ what's at stake for you, but we cannot travel any faster and therefore you cannot participate in or affect any of the conflict ongoing right now."

Morgana scowled again – but not at him; he was right. "You sound like Finna," she accused him. "She says, if I'm destined to play a part, then it shall be done – and if not, then nothing I can do will accomplish anything anyway."

He made a thoughtful noise and faced forward, and she took a moment to study him. He _caused_ her calm, with his quiet confidence and unshakable love. Honey-brown hair a bit wind-tossed as they rode, darker for being damp, light brown eyes keen for their path and her mood, alike. If she lost all else, she'd still have him. And Trevena, and Arthur and Gwen…

She made an effort to still her movements. It made her feel helpless, like when she missed her mother. Like when Gorlois died, like when she discovered she had magic, in Camelot. It irked her to realize what she couldn't control – and therefore couldn't _keep_. Maybe that was life, good and bad in random, and all control illusory… but even if there were forces beyond the perception and understanding of mankind, she resisted the idea that anything took away her right to _choose_.

Then again, when other people made choices that caused her loss, what was she to do? Maybe Uther had ordered her father into battle and maybe he'd gone gladly. She wanted to keep Morgause and she wanted to keep Merlin, but she couldn't _choose_ peace between them.

Even with magic. Finna was teaching her that. Shouldn't force your will on people even if you had the ability to – it wasn't right, and therefore wouldn't last. And might even turn out exactly the opposite of what you're aiming for.

Acollyn was much better at accepting what he couldn't change. Maybe it was because he didn't have magic.

Ahead of them the scout reined in, looking back at them to signal. Morgana didn't know enough to interpret, but when Acollyn spurred his horse forward into a canter to catch up with the waiting knight, she immediately followed.

"What is it?" she demanded, urging her mare to crest the rise even with Acollyn's mount, and the scout on his other side.

"There…" The knight pointed.

Acollyn stood in his stirrups, shading his eyes with his hand – not because of the hidden sun, but to help his vision focus at the distance.

"I don't see-" she began crossly, then cut herself off.

The whole land was grey – rock and sparse pasture under the low clouds that had been drizzling down the back of her neck anytime she lowered her hood. But there in the distance – a tower of at least four levels, and now that she'd seen it, she could see the wall around it, a wandering line that didn't impress, from here.

Beckon Cove.

Was there movement by the wall, or was that only a trick of her eyes, the weather and the leagues that separated? She wished she knew the spell that would let her cast her vision forward, the way one could cast their voice to a subject of their choosing. Maybe if Finna had come along-

"Bloody hell, look!" the scout blurted, forgetting her presence. His forefinger twitched upward.

A scrap of dark cloud fluttered down – sped down, faster than falling, and-

"The dragon?" Acollyn said, and then with more certainty, "The dragon. I can't tell if there's fighting, but if he's there – he said they'd handle it?"

She couldn't nod, her neck was stiff. Her sister was among the enemy there…

The dragon appeared smaller than her thumbnail at this distance. He dropped down next to the tower – momentary relief, for a minute she thought he'd attack the structure, or crash into it and hurt him-

He rose from the ground, the strength and motion necessary for defying gravity obvious and breath-taking.

Her heart was in her throat. She couldn't inhale and she didn't understand why. It felt like the ground was falling out from under her, balance lost somewhere far behind – she despised the helpless fear but it was _illogical_ , why was-

The dragon's upward climb halted, and something fell out from under, something so tiny and insignificant its existence could be doubted…

The very air caught invisible fire all around Morgana, exploding in a soundless scream of abject terror, imminent and accelerating _death_. It lasted three heartbeats.

She heard Acollyn's voice; he said her name. Repeated it frantically, with a wild shrieking echo – _Morgana_!

Then darkness slammed into her, and she knew no more.

…..*….. …..*….. …..*….. …..*….. …..*…..

Freya heard voices, felt hands on her, jostling and importunate, and for a disoriented moment thought the witch had made good on her threat. She was absolutely helpless – lying limp on hard ground and too groggy to offer any resistance-

Then she realized what the voices were saying.

"Princess! My lady! Are you all right? Please wake, my lady – the witch is gone!"

She blinked and felt the wet – mist-drizzle collecting on her skin, ground-water soaking into her clothing and hair. Faces clustered over her, beards and veils and shaggy hair and worried eyes. She put out her hands and tensed her muscles and four or five of them grasped her gently, pulling her to her feet and steadying her.

"What happened?" she said.

"We were guarding the gate as ordered-"

"It was a massive dragon, it came out of nowhere-"

"-Down from the sky like _that_!" The speaker clapped his hands together to indicate the startling rapidity of the attack.

"-Grabbed the witch in its claws, and just…"

She craned her neck, looking upwards, all around the gray-mottled sky, squinting against the thick moisture in the air. "Where-"

"It's there, now." All of them pointed at once – warriors keeping track of a potential threat. It was very high, she thought, but in the moment that she watched, the shape grew larger, though it didn't move much from its position in the sky. Hovering, gliding – descending?

"There was a man riding it," one of them said abruptly.

Too far to tell for sure, for herself. "They say there's only one dragon left," Freya reminded them. The shape was definitely descending; it was recognizably a dragon, now. "The great dragon. And Merlin's father the last dragonlord…"

He must have found his father, then. Must have heard the message Morgana had been asked to convey, and.. asked his father and the dragon to… help?

"Think it's coming back, my lady," the man on her right said. "I think they're coming back."

"What are our orders?"

It took her another moment to understand that they addressed her. Astonished, she stared at them – realized that they all wore bandages; one was missing a boot and the one on her left carried his arm in a sling.

The man on her right explained, "The queen took the king and the ablest of the warriors and retreated from the fortress. We've held the gate and the wall against the Saxons."

Another muttered, "Mostly because they haven't been attacking, exactly…"

A shout from the gate caught their attention, all at once. She couldn't identify what was shouted, but she caught the urgency. Maybe the Saxons had expected more from their ally on the inside, but if they'd seen the dragon, they'd either scatter or – push for a position more potentially advantageous.

"Do what you can to hold the wall," she said to them; they were already turning away and gripping their weapons. "Don't worry about the dragon; I don't believe he's an enemy."

"I believe he's coming here," the last man told her, pointing warily once again as he limped after his comrades.

Freya's neck hurt as she twisted around to look up. He was right, though – the dragon's body took up a quarter of the sky – wings outstretched to cup the air, legs extended to cushion a landing-

She staggered backward, legs stiff and the outside of her right knee twinging with a pinch of pain – but that was a physical reaction. Inside there was a sort of overwhelmed calm – life was so improbable, sometimes. It felt like she'd been moving through a dream, the last couple of days. Reaching the stair to the tower, she sank down to save herself collapsing, and watched as the dragon landed. Little chips of stone rattled and bounced, and though the great wings – the color of dried blood, to her eyes – tucked high against the ridged back, he crouched only slightly and kept his head upturned, alert, though she could not tell exactly, to what.

And there was a man astride his neck. The man slid down and paused, appearing to lean at the front of the creature's foreleg. He had rather wild gray-streaked hair and beard, and a long fur-and-leather coat, enveloping and intimidating. The tip of a sword interrupted the fall of the hem slightly to one side.

 _This is Merlin's father_ , she thought. And, _he's not so out-of-place in Caerleon as we all thought…_ But she couldn't make herself move, as he pushed away from the dragon and strode across the bailey-ground toward her.

"Are you all right?" he said, extending his hand just like the gate-warriors had done.

She realized that her wrist hurt – there was blood on her sleeve. Her skirt was torn. She said to him, "The king and queen aren't here. I think the Saxons have renewed their attack on our gates."

He straightened slightly and turned to look, his hand still outstretched. She thought she could see, behind his hair, the cragginess of feature that Merlin's face might wear in twenty years. Solid, prominent bone structure, and unlike Hunith's softer, finer, rounder face. The dragonlord – Balinor the dragonlord. Her father.

"No – I think they're in retreat, now," he said. "Because of us landing, I think. I could join the swordsmen, maybe follow and harry them – but Kilgarrah considers his enemy vanquished."

She blinked at the dragon, who didn't seem to have noticed her at all, and shuddered to remember how he had been _there_ before she knew it, and the witch _gone_ in the very next second. Immense and implacable, and… she was trembling, and couldn't stop.

"The witch is dead?" she asked.

He looked back at her, and she felt shy of his gaze. Did he realize who _she_ was? Hello, nice to meet you, I've married your son…

"We flew her up, and let her go," he explained gently. "I cannot think she survived the fall."

Survived the fall.

"Oh!" she exclaimed, jumping up so suddenly she almost lost her balance in the momentary darkness that clouded her vision. "Oh – _Gwaine_!"

She turned and hurried, stumbling, and she was halfway up the stair before she realized how rude to turn her back on a stranger and a guest who'd recently become kin, whether he was aware of it or not. But he kept pace, following her.

"Gwaine? Merlin's friend, Geart's son?"

"Yes," she answered breathlessly, accepting evidence that her husband and his father had gotten the chance to begin an acquaintance. What if those inside the fortress had barred the doors again behind them? "The witch trapped us in Merlin's room-"

"The room enchanted with protections?" he said.

"Yes – how did you know?" She reached to open one of the doors if she could, looking at him and he avoided her eyes, helping to pull on the latch – it was unbarred.

"The dragon knew."

Oh. Well… okay. "Just now, though, she broke in and Gwaine was thrown into the shelves and he wasn't moving, and I don't know if-"

The watchers at the double doors to the feast hall turned infirmary pushed them ajar to at the sight of her.

"My lady! Your Highness! What happened? What of the witch?" Those behind pushed those in front out of their way til – no witch to be seen – worried people were spilling out of the room.

Freya held up her hands, instinctively trying to keep them from rushing around her, crowding and touching her and she didn't think she could stand that, in the moment. "The witch is dead, killed by the dragon commanded by Prince Merlin's father…" She glanced at him, wondering about his reaction, but though his expression was closed and stern as if he too resisted the attention, he gave a slight bow at her introduction. "We think the Saxons are in retreat, but – is Haelend here?"

Several voices spoke at once; heads turned back toward the feast-hall. "Haelend went with the king – his wife is here – Filstra is here…"

"I have some skill in healing, my lady," the dragonlord said in a deep quiet voice behind her.

"Good," Freya said, to both revelations. "I need a carrier, and men to help me."

"Are Their Majesties all right? When will they be returning? What of our homes – fields – livestock? We need to wash – to eat-"

How did the others do this? The king, and Queen Annis, and Merlin – how did they think of everything at once and handle crisis so calmly? She couldn't open up her mouth and say, I don't know… And then she caught sight of someone, quiet and patient on the edge of the group.

"Maegden!" she called, and the older woman alerted, visibly putting weariness behind her. "Could you take charge here, and see that needs are met, as far as we're able? Anyone who can, should help you."

The queen's maidservant nodded and it was almost a bow as well, and Freya felt a surge of gratitude – but past the anxious-faced people, she saw two men come out from the banquet-hall with a carrier between them. Both of them caught her eye, and she was moving without thought for anyone else, again.

"This way," she ordered, raising her voice to reach them above the murmurings of the servants and people of Hanbury, skirting them to head down the corridor – had it been moments only, since the blonde witch dragged her out?

Up the stair that felt like the last summit of a high mountain peak – she had to brace herself on the wall with her hand, using her whole body to ascend each step, rather than just her legs – around the corner. The upstairs hall smelled of hot metal, like the smith's forge, and burnt herbs. She caught herself on the empty frame of the door, charred and coated with metal from the melted hinges, gulping air and trying to check the pounding of her heart.

Pale internal splinters broke through the age-darkened skin of the toppled wooden shelves. Glass and pottery sparkled in malevolent shards in a scattered circle around, and the room was too still.

There were Gwaine's boots, motionless. Maybe the wreckage was shuffled a bit around and beneath them – did that mean he'd moved? Did that mean he was alive?

The sound of the men shuffling behind her propelled her forward. "Gareth?" she said, her boots crackling over broken vessels from the shelf. The boy had burrowed in to find his master and his kinsman from the far side of the mess… "Gareth – it's Freya. Are you all right? Is Gwaine-"

Both of them came into her view – Gwaine sprawled under two of the shelves, canted to allow – his chest to rise and fall shallowly, breathing without disturbing any of the clutter. _Alive_! Her sigh of relief caught on jagged edges in her throat; alive didn't necessarily mean _all right_. His hands were limp and empty, his eyes closed, his head turned to the side. Gareth was curled up tight next to him, curly dark hair tucked under the man's chin.

"Gareth?" she said again. There was no obvious blood from either of them. He opened his eyes and looked at her – far too calmly.

Someone swore and made a rush toward the remains of the shelf, and she realized Balinor had followed her up the stairs. He reached to lift the broken furniture, but Freya stopped him with a peremptory gesture, stepping forward to crouch closer to the boy.

"She's gone," she whispered to him. "The witch is gone, and she's never coming back to hurt us, ever again. Do you know there's a dragon in the bailey? He took care of the witch. He's enormous, you can see him if you like, you can come with me. I brought people to help Gwaine, to get him out of here and take care of him, but we need you to move first – can you do that?"

Gareth lifted his head, shifting the rubble beneath him as he sat up. "I didn't run away," he said hoarsely, sounding very small and young. She wiggled her fingers invitingly and he moved forward against her, letting her put her arms around him and cuddle back against the overturned tabletop. "I want to tell him that, but he won't wake up. I didn't run away."

"No, you didn't," she said to Gareth, smoothing his hair back from his face and tucking her chin over his head. "You were so brave…"

Balinor, watching them, began to lift pieces carefully and set them aside when he could have tossed them swiftly – as if mindful of the boy's possible reaction to sudden, sharp, loud noises.

"We were brave," Gareth said drowsily. "Weren't we? And he'll be proud?"

Tears stung Freya's eyes. "Yes, I think so," she said. "Just like we're proud of him, right?"

Gareth hummed, settling against her like he'd done during the night to sleep – and awake, he'd resisted. One of the men with the carrier left his companion to help Balinor; the other laid the carrier down in careful readiness.

"Who's that?" Gareth said, in a tone of complete disinterest.

Balinor balanced and positioned himself; the two other men lifted the main piece of shelf, holding it up to allow Balinor to reach and shift Gwaine. "Gwaine," the dragonlord said, his voice deep and soft. "Hey, lad. Wake up, now. Can you hear me?"

"That's Merlin's father," Freya told Gareth. He tensed against her side as Gwaine groaned and moved a bit – maybe involuntarily, maybe not – and she held him still.

"Uncle says Merlin is different," the boy commented vaguely. "Magic… I wanted to see magic…"

"Yeah," Freya agreed. Though the magic he'd seen and experienced thus far might be categorized as traumatizing. "Oh, but Merlin's magic – wait til you see it. He is different, I promise you."

"Merlin's father is magic?"

Balinor looked up at her, hands still occupied with rolling Gwaine to his side so the carrier could be shoved beneath his body before settling him back onto it. Gwaine's eyes flickered briefly open, a wrinkle forming on his forehead, his mouth dropping open to gasp for breath as he arched and struggled minimally.

She lifted her brows questioningly; he'd said healing, hadn't he?

"Just a bit," the older man said, sliding Gwaine on the carrier out from under the structure of the ruined shelf, and motioning for Freya's two volunteers to set their burden down and assume a new one. "I can help your healer, with magic."

"You can help Uncle Gwaine?" Gareth pushed away from Freya, getting his feet under him and she let go, finding her own legs shaky but sufficient.

"I'll surely do my best, lad," the dragonlord said, glancing to make sure the two other men lifted Gwaine smoothly and comfortably. He angled his body in the long wild-looking coat and cocked his head. "That's magic you'd like to see?"

"Oh, yes!" The suggestion and its implications proved energizing, and the boy skipped forward eagerly.

Freya put a hand on the upward edge of the table, feeling a big light-headed herself, as if all her emotions had shaken loose and would need to be sorted back in their appropriate places before they could be used again. This mess would need to be cleaned – someone warned about the vase behind the curtain – was it all very silly, now that they hadn't been killed, the way they'd feared? Should she be ashamed to remember those long hours here, what they'd done and said?

"And you, my lady?" Balinor said, pausing half-turned as the others bore Gwaine from the room and Gareth pressed close to his prone uncle. "Are you all right?"

She lifted and turned her hand to see the scratch on her wrist from some flying sharp-edged bit, when the shelf crashed down on Gwaine. "The bleeding's stopped…" And her leg would bend and bear her weight; she didn't feel any blood trickling down her calf, either. So very minor, in comparison…

He was frowning. He was twice as intimidating, when he was frowning. "That wasn't what I meant…"

Her vision did something odd around the edges, and a delicate high-pitched buzzing sound filled her ears. She tried to say, _I'm fine_ , but she wasn't; she was going to embarrass herself somehow, but then he was right next to her, cupping her elbows with careful supportive hands. It reminded her of descending from Halig's cage, having just watched the king dispatch judgment on the bounty hunter, brutal and casual and entirely within his rights – but then Merlin was there.

"Oh," she said, an involuntary bubble of almost hysterical relief, the only sound of its kind she'd let escape. And then she was tucked up safely against his chest, leaning against his strength and solidarity as she'd never dare to do with the king who was Merlin's adoptive father.

He held her so gently it was almost cautiously. "You have been very brave," he said, and his voice rumbled through his chest into her ear. "He would be so proud of you."

She ached for Merlin to hold her, his arms and strength and voice, so certain and so understanding and so loved. "Where is he? Will he be here soon?"

"Yes," her father-in-law responded, and there was a note in his voice she couldn't decipher. "I rather think he will."

 **A/N: I have a follow-up surgery on my knee tomorrow, and it seems that pain meds don't mix with creative writing, for me. So I don't know how long it'll be before the next chapter, but hey! This one is longer, and not a cliffie!**


	19. Through the Falling Twilight

**Chapter 19: Through the Falling Twilight**

Annis needed a minute of air, damp and gray though it was. She watched the men who'd come with them from Beckon Cove, the able warriors – diminished by a third who were acting as scouts around their position – move about the abandoned druid encampment. Fortifying the area as much as possible, she supposed, though she didn't have the energy to determine that through attentive watching.

They hadn't seen the dragon again, all day. Perhaps the witch had broken into the room and perhaps Freya was dead and perhaps the dragon had demolished the tower entirely and perhaps he'd caught and killed the witch and perhaps she'd escaped.

And perhaps the dragon and the dragonlord were still watching…

Just as she was, still watching. Heaven and hell, she hated waiting like this. Ten times worse than when Thurston – or Merlin, now he was grown – rode out without her.

Everything was damp and gray. Everything.

Annis combed her fingers roughly through her hair, parting it and braiding it. The best she could do for tidying herself up, just know. Knotting a bit of string at the end of the braid, she watched Hunith make her way up the sloping path to the mouth of the chamber they'd chosen for the king. One hand held her skirts out of her way to avoid tripping; the other held a rag around the handle of a small steaming pot.

She turned to the back of the cave, intending to alert Haelend – but the healer was curled up in the corner, arms crossed over his chest and knees draw up, snoring lightly.

"It's not too hot, is it?" Annis said to Hunith as she reached the doorway of the rough druidic chamber.

"No, I drew it off before the stew had heated sufficiently to feed the warriors," Hunith answered, following her to the side of the bed – a dilapidated frame re-tied for a new occupant, the musty mattress padded and shielded with a large fur. "Anden is supervising their meal in shifts."

"Well, it looks like it's just us, here," Annis said, rounding the bed to the side where the lantern burned – that left Hunith more room on the front side. Annis put her back to the wall and slid down to rest gingerly on a fall of rubble in the corner, as Hunith perched on the bedframe beside Thurston's knee.

"Is it a good thing that Haelend is confident enough to sleep," Hunith said, dipping a spoonful.

Annis leaned to cradle her husband's head, tilt his jaw to accept nourishment in liquid form. Weakness was not something she'd ever associated with her husband, but the healer said, it would take time for his body to recover from losing so much blood. Annis wasn't quite sure how water and wine and broth in his belly was supposed to transform to blood in his veins, but Haelend knew best, of course.

So she ignored the feel of dried blood on the back of Thurston's neck and in his hair, the grit of dirt caught and stuck where the wound bled. And they trickled spoonful after spoonful of strained stew down his throat, and every time he swallowed involuntarily Annis worried for the stitches at the side of his neck, the closed seam coated in honey and wrapped only loosely.

 _We must keep him still_ , Haelend had said also.

She almost wished that his consciousness and desire to move would make obedience to the healer's orders a struggle.

"How did the two of you meet?" Hunith murmured, hands steady and eyes on her work. And in the twelve years they'd known each other, Merlin's mother had rarely ventured anywhere close to this personal a question. Maybe it was the situation; maybe the younger woman thought she needed distraction and comfort.

Maybe she was right.

For an instant, in Annis' eyes, the wrinkles beneath her fingers were smoothed, the flesh was firm, the hair pure black. "We met at dinner," she said. It was amusing, in retrospect. "A feast. Our betrothal feast – only, my father hadn't told me that detail. I was furious."

Hunith hummed, her lips quirking in sympathy.

"I was scared to death," Annis added quietly. "I knew my father was dying. And I'd be on my own. I knew… of course he'd make sure I was taken care of, in the most certain way possible. I _knew_ it would be marriage – I _didn't_ think it would be the king's son. And then Thurston was… so very typical of Caerleon's warriors. He was the very best at everything they are – rude and violent. I was almost sick to think, this would be my husband. This would be my life. I argued with him – oh, I argued with him every chance I got, I called him boorish and stupid… And he snarled and snapped back at me."

Annis remembered those early fights, the brilliant cruelty and the fear and despair – but at the same time, she couldn't help noticing how strong he was, how capable and fearless and respected. So ready to fight, and win. And she'd begun to think of what her kingdom would be with this man on the throne – and what she might do about it.

"I thought for sure he'd avoid me. That he'd resent and regret what our fathers agreed. And I couldn't figure why we kept encountering each other – indoors, outdoors, every time I turned around he was there – if I kept being so disagreeable. And then I realized – he liked that. He was proud of me. He preferred a shouting match and a woman who wouldn't submit and cower in tears. He saw strength in me, and valued it. He'd provoke me in front of his friends, or some visitors from one of the estates, and then he'd get this glint in his eye when I didn't hold my tongue…"

She had to stop to breathe, and swallow. And blink away tears she couldn't wipe from her face, not when her hands were occupied holding his head up and his mouth open for an invalid's sustenance. He was so silent, so still and passive.

What if he…

What if he never…

"Balinor was… the exact opposite, when I met him," Hunith said quietly, sitting back and letting the spoon rest in the pot.

Not too much at a time, Annis remembered. And maybe the appearance of the dragonlord prompted her thoughts about lifetime commitments and how they'd begun…

"He had nothing but the rags on his back. Half out of his mind with illness and grief – he'd come sometime in the night, and collapsed at the well in our village. Everyone was scared to get close, but – what else should I do? Wait for him to die so we could have access to our well again?"

Annis looked past Merlin's mother at the oblong shape of indistinct gray that formed the doorway of the chamber, and pictured the dragonlord again. Wild and wary like any of their warriors – but not because he'd been brought up that way.

"I didn't know he was a dragonlord, of course," Hunith spoke absently, voicing thoughts that were new and old and recalled. "I could tell _magic_ , even before he recovered his senses. And of course, Uther's purge the reason for his arrival and his appearance and condition. He had no home, no family – I never pressed for details, but I knew he had relatives who'd been recently killed. He needed… oh, he needed so much, he'd lost so much, but he needed me. It felt good to know I helped him."

Not at all surprising; Annis had noticed that trait in Hunith's character long ago. Merlin had it, too. Optimism and hope.

"Looking back I realize… we lived so much in the moment. We didn't plan, we didn't talk about, in five years, or what if there's children. He made it through each day one by one – I helped him through the night. Every time we vowed again, we were wed as truly as any couple, but… now I wonder."

"Wonder what?" Annis asked. Because it helped her to help Hunith, to connect and compare.

"I don't think he could have lived these last twenty years happily, as a farmer," Hunith said, her eyes and her thoughts a kingdom and a half away, in a little town Annis did not remember so well as a secluded little glen with a brook running through it. "Even if Uther's knights never came, even if a quarrelsome neighbor never spread rumors… Merlin's magic would have terrified him, for Merlin's sake. And the bandits – he never could have agreed to give up any portion of our harvest, even for peace and safety, even if he couldn't have fought them all himself. He had more inside him than farming. So does Merlin."

Annis took a deep breath and let it out slowly. "It's more than just the magic," she said, and Merlin's mother nodded, understanding in a moment what Annis could probably never adequately describe. "He's regent now, whether he knows it or not."

That caught Hunith's attention, and she straightened, her gaze snapping to Annis, reflecting the lantern light. "I thought you… oh, I thought that _you_ , when the king isn't able to-"

"I would have," Annis said, "if we didn't have another capable of ruling. Even temporarily in the king's stead. And I know Thurston would feel the same – he'd never for one second worry about betrayal, if he regains his strength and desires his authority fully restored."

"When," Hunith corrected, softly but firmly.

Annis nodded; that was her hope as well, but it was by no means certain. Merlin would be brilliant in the meantime – whenever they got him back. Or if he wasn't brilliant, he'd learn valuable lessons for the future.

Her attention alerted to some noise outside the cave-chamber – possibly a stone dislodged by the boot of the guard whose profile interrupted the expanses of gray sky in the doorway.

"Scouts coming in with a troop of strangers," he said gruffly, as if embarrassed to intrude upon the queen in her vigil at the wounded king's side.

Hunith twisted to face him, as Annis struggled to her feet. "It isn't Merlin?"

The figure shook his head, wrapped in the traditional manner. "Not the prince. They've got a woman with them, but it looks like-"

"The lady Morgana," Hunith said, upward to Annis as she came around the bed again.

"-There's something wrong," the man finished. "The lady rides with another, as if-"

Annis didn't wait to hear their suppositions. If the dragon and his lord couldn't get Merlin to Beckon Cove any faster than his own horse, Morgana was their best hope of reaching the witch and staying her hand – against Freya, against anyone, everyone – whether she appealed to her as a sister or opposed her with her own magic. If there had been any mishap on their journey-

Pushing past the guard in the opening of the cave-chamber, she gathered her skirts and descended to the ground, headed for her horse. Hunith would stay with Thurston – and Haelend – and she would ride to meet Lady Morgana and those who had come with her.

…..*….. …..*….. …..*…..

Mordred was self-conscious about his place on Merlin's gelding. Arthur had his mount, and the Lord Baldwyn and his captain. There had been casual introductions tossed back and forth as Merlin – Emrys – the prince led them at a demanding pace, but Mordred didn't remember names. Most had their faces covered anyway, though that didn't hide the querulous glances sent his way.

"How's your arm?" Arthur said casually, making conversation and setting him partially at ease through the distraction.

"It's good," he answered. Actually it ached dully and he wanted to squeeze his bone to make it stop – but for the knowledge that the action would be counter-effective. "A lot better than it was."

"I haven't seen much healing magic," Arthur continued. They two, even though mounted, had fallen to the rear of the assembly, jogging hard and sometimes scrambling over the rough terrain, following no roads but Merlin's instinct. "I take it that healing was not an important topic of Merlin's study, as prioritized by his king."

From his vantage point on the gelding, Mordred could see Merlin in the lead, the back of his head and the angled hilt of his sword over his shoulder. For many years he'd speculated childishly about the identity and personality of Emrys – he'd assumed the power and magic of a _warlock_ , but he hadn't anticipated the fierce determination and skill of a _warrior_.

"I was taught," he said aside to Arthur, sensitive to the ears of the other fighters surrounding them – and they two were the foreigners on Caerleon soil, now – "that a druid's only business with battle was healing."

He glanced aside to see Arthur frown. It was unhappy; he remembered _Pendragon_ and _prince_ , and the raids. And cringed.

"I was taught," Arthur responded after a moment, "that any man's business was to protect his family, and himself, his land, his lord, his kingdom."

Mordred blinked and his memory turned itself around. When he'd been a child, terrified and lost after the death of his family, Arthur Pendragon would have been about the age he was now. Only just beginning to consider himself capable of taking up arms. Only just beginning to realize how very complicated the world was – and how much more, the men in it, and what they said.

But Arthur had demonstrated he possessed the courage to question what he'd been told about his destiny by the tyrant-king his father. He'd made friends with an enemy once before. And he was riding beside Mordred trying to do it again.

He shifted in his saddle, touching the hilt of his poor-quality sword, trying to remember what Arthur had taught him about thrust-and-parry. "Were you," he said, and had to clear his throat. "Ah, were you… excited, for your first battle?"

Arthur glanced at him with a cheerful-sympathetic grimace. "I was so confused. The men, my father's men – some of them teased me. Some said it was easy, you could fight standing on one foot with your eyes closed, politely covering a yawn." He made the gesture humorous, and Mordred had to smile. "Others said what a hell it was, stifling heat and smothering stench and insurmountable exhaustion and an inexperienced stripling such as myself, sure to be gutted at the first charge."

Mordred lost his smile. He felt ill and dizzy; his hand moved to his belly and he couldn't help imagining his skin and clothing split open, spilling out blood and innards like an animal slaughtered for roasting.

"But," Arthur added, "my father made sure I was in company with good men, who'd protect me with their lives if necessary. I think I was allowed a quarter-hour's participation before I was called back to my father's position of command. I was exhausted and my bright armor was filthy and I stank of sweat that ran in my eyes and stung. My muscles were sore for a week in spite of all my training, and I had three bruises from my own armor."

Mordred looked over and met the prince's blue eyes, a serious look in them, that somehow invited confidence.

"They gave me this," he blurted. "Ragnor gave me this. I didn't… ever really fight, sometimes with magic, but I knew… they meant me to, eventually. I wasn't… I'm not... a _child_ , anymore, so-"

"Mordred," Arthur interrupted. "I would bet two baths, a banquet entire and a month's worth of nights in my own bed that no one means for you to fight today. Or tomorrow, or the next day. This, that we choose to do, the way we choose to live – there is glory, but there is sacrifice, and you need to make your choice with no one pushing or pressuring you."

"I think I could," Mordred said. Relief made him feel a bit braver. "If I had to, I think I could."

Arthur gave him an uninhibited smile, and there was pride and approval there that tingled through Mordred's core. How long since someone had given him that look?

But then Mordred was startling and snatching at his reins, realizing that the warriors around and ahead of them had stopped running. He looked first to find Merlin, who was listening intently to another member of the party; Lord Baldwyn was at his shoulder along with the leader of the second group, the man with the scar on his face and Mordred didn't know his name either.

Merlin shifted with impatience or agitation, and raised one hand in a beckoning gesture without lifting his head. Mordred was uncertain what it meant, or who it was for – but Arthur swung right down from his mount, flipping the reins forward to trail on the ground, a wordless command for the horse to stand and wait.

Mordred prepared to do the same, stand and wait, but Arthur threw a look over his shoulder – raised brows and a tilt of his head. And that gesture, Mordred interpreted. He scrambled down from Merlin's gelding and hurried to follow the Pendragon prince through the warriors of Caerleon – bigger and meaner-looking from down here – well aware of those distrustful looks again.

 _Who is that. Why's he here. Inexperienced stripling._

He was still behind Arthur's elbow when Merlin raised his voice over the mumblings and mutterings of the others.

"I want to know what you think. Arthur."

The Pendragon prince moved forward, confident among older, harder men, giving him now those glances above veils and under turbans; Mordred followed so as not to be left surrounded when the warriors closed ranks behind his passage. Followed as Arthur followed, when Merlin moved away from the main body of men, crouching to ascend the rise before them. He balanced himself with one hand down at the crest, to look over and down and across.

Mordred was curious to see, but as Arthur copied Merlin's movements, he hung back a bit. It never was his place to push to the front in Ragnor's band and though these princes wouldn't think twice about it, he respected his place with them more than he'd ever minded Ragnor's clouts and scowls.

"Moving north," Arthur said, his interest intent upon something only the two of them could see from their vantage point. "Swift pace… say two hundred. And twenty."

"Best to overestimate," Merlin murmured in agreement.

"They're not _yours_."

"Saxons, of course," Merlin said in the same thoughtfully-absent way, and it didn't match the tight tension of his body at all.

They watched for a moment, and Mordred grew aware of the mutterings of the men behind him.

"Who-"

"-A stranger, what does he think he-"

"-Someone's youngest son, maybe? Out of one of the furthest border estates?"

He thought they were discussing him, and his inclusion in a war band of fully grown and fully capable warriors. But then he realized they were discussing _Arthur_.

"-Seems to have the prince's ear, he does."

"If it were my son-"

"You think they're in retreat?" Arthur said, capturing Mordred's attention forward again.

"At that swift a pace, they're not nursing many wounded along, nor carrying heavy plunder," Merlin answered without looking at him. "But the scout says they've no women."

Arthur turned his head, enough that Mordred could see him open his mouth – reconsider, and close it again. A moment later he realized what Arthur's thought had been when Merlin voiced it, sounded grim and implacable, rather than abstractly academic.

"They've no one _dressed as_ women."

In the moment of silence that followed, Mordred thought, _retreat, then? or victory?_

"I can't let them simply pass by, without knowing," Merlin said. "What happened, what they've done."

"Intercept them with a truce party to talk?" Arthur said – not as a suggestion he'd advocate strongly, but to gauge Merlin's response to the option.

"That's what Lord Baldwyn would have me do."

Mordred was aware again of the muttering behind them, men who'd been called upon to supplement whatever standing army Caerleon had, but who might retain other loyalties, other identities, other occupations. Who might not be so keen for the fight as the common warriors of Caerleon.

Merlin added in a pensive tone, "But how do we trust anything they say, in that position?"

"Invaders on your soil, facing a company fairly well-matched and ready to fight just on principle," Arthur agreed. "You're thinking to attack first?"

"With the barest of warnings," Merlin said.

It had been a fearful thing to see him take on Prince Arthur as if he meant it, only last night at their camp, but Mordred found this quiet intensity almost more intimidating.

Arthur shifted back, facing Merlin. "What does the dragon say?"

Merlin's jaw clenched and his knuckles whitened, but he didn't move. "I'm not sure it would make much difference. Could I trust anything he would say, either."

Arthur didn't respond, and after a moment, he moved back down the rise, straightening to rejoin Mordred and the gathered leaders of the warriors, Merlin close on his heels. Mordred watched Merlin's face, fascinated again at how stern Emrys could be, and still so young.

 _Better him with that destiny than me_ , he thought. _All I've got to do is_ not _kill someone as long as I can help it._

"Straight over the hilltop and down on top of them?" the captain asked, flexing the fingers of his sword-hand inside his glove.

"They'll see us coming and have significant time to prepare a defensive formation," Merlin answered.

Lord Baldwyn snorted. "They're _Saxons_ , sire."

"And you'd have me let them go rather than risk your men," Merlin responded mildly, but there was steel in his eyes.

"If they keep to the lowest part of the land, they'll curve around us slightly here," Arthur said. "We could go back that way and take them unexpectedly, meeting on the curve. Then they wouldn't see us coming."

 _We. Us_. Mordred noticed his use of that word. Because Pendragon had every reason to raise open palms and take a step back from this conflict.

"We'll split up," Merlin said, scowling at the ground and gripping his arms crossed over his ring-studded leather breastplate. "Baldwyn, your men are with me and we'll retrace our steps like Arthur said. Ferdrinck-"

The captain with the scar straightened attentively, no trace of disagreement on his face or in his bearing; it was a marked difference to how the other bandits had taken Ragnor's attempts at command.

"You and your men wait til the Saxons are out of sight here, then descend and circle behind them. We'll catch them between."

"Take no prisoners?" Lpord Baldwyn drawled, eyes glittering.

"If any Saxon voluntarily throws down his weapons to surrender, accept it," Merlin decided. "But if you disarm a man, don't wait to demand a cooperation that might be reluctant, and reconsidered. Also be very sensitive to the possibility of the presence of the witch or… the princess. In disguise."

For a moment the other men absorbed that, and Merlin held himself more tightly still – then the leaders gave signaled commands and the rest began to sort themselves swiftly to go or stay. Mordred interjected quietly, "And me?"

Merlin put a hand on Mordred's shoulder, his expression softening toward a smile, though his eyes were serious, secret and deep. "You can take charge of the horses, yeah? Stay here with Ferdrinck's men, and follow behind them as it feels safe to you. And I'll see you in a bit. _Ic the aweardian_."

Maybe it was just his knowledge of the magic and it's intent, but the spell of protection seemed to tingle across Mordred's skin and he sighed his relief. Merlin stalked through the men – half beginning to backtrack – and Arthur slapped his reins into Mordred's hand with a wry smile, before following. Lord Baldwyn grunted, but if he took issue with the arrangement, he didn't betray it to Mordred, thrusting the lead of both his mount and his second-in-command to Mordred's care.

He watched them out of sight through the mob of warriors, then found the eyes of the captain of the second troop on him, considering Mordred's sword, his lack of armor, his stature short and slight for his age.

Ferdrinck signaled for one of his men to take a lookout position on his belly on the hilltop beyond them without looking away from Mordred, and scratched his jaw contemplatively. "Are you a squire, then?"

"No," Mordred said. It was disappointing, somehow. He couldn't say _I'm a druid_ and he was glad not to have to say _I'm a bandit_ , but… what was he, now? "I'm a sorcerer."

Ferdrinck grunted, unaffected. "In training?"

Close enough. Mordred shrugged. "Merlin put a spell of protection on me just now, you needn't worry I'll get hurt and he'll be mad."

The older man's grin was sudden and fierce. "It's just Merlin to you, too, hey? I suppose Gwaine was right about him after all." The man on the rise signaled, and Ferdrinck twisted to address his men. "Come on, then, lads, let's show our prince what we're made of at Orkan-broch!"

The warriors didn't holler agreement, in consideration of the stealthy nature of their maneuver, but they all gave a peculiar, deliberate grunt nearly in unison that made the hair on Mordred's arms stand up.

He held the horses – ears pricked and nostrils flared alertly – til the last warrior had streamed past him, then arranged the reins so he could mount Merlin's gelding again and lead the others without difficulty, content to keep the rearguard in view as they descended. He hoped his extra height, mounted, would not give them away somehow and ruin Merlin's plan. He suspected that Merlin would be at the front of the attack – and Arthur right behind him.

…..*….. …..*….. …..*….. …..*….. …..*…..

Arthur followed Merlin readily. The times he'd traveled on foot since leaving the mountains, to spare Shadow carrying him interminably, gave him a new respect for the endurance Caerleon had built into Merlin's unassuming figure.

Even now, crouched at the base of the hill which hid them from the Saxons – behind Merlin in the lead, with Lord Baldwyn's men behind him – he could see no further evidence of Merlin's tireless pace than the quick and steady breathing under control, the sweat-dampened hair at Merlin's collar and behind his neck. Some of the other warriors were in far worse shape; Arthur knew he couldn't have made their journey thus.

"You don't have to, you know," Merlin said softly without turning his head, his eyes narrowed and fixed upon the point where the first Saxon would show. Arthur stared at him, uncomprehending, til he added, "Join this fight? It's not your fight – it's not your kingdom…"

"Your fight is my fight," Arthur said, even more softly so only Merlin would hear him. Because he knew, if the situation was reversed and it was Camelot and Gwen threatened, he wouldn't be able to beg Merlin to turn his back and go home.

Merlin swiveled to stare at him, astonished out of the unusual mindset he'd been caught in.

Arthur had no words, and no time, to say everything he wanted to – and wasn't at all sure it would do Merlin much good anyway.

 _I remember this_. How many times on how many forays, palm sweaty inside his glove, convulsively gripping his hilt in his fist as he waited to lead his men. Everyone alive and well in this moment and the next – but then, who knew? And as their leader, as their prince, it was all for him. For the kingdom, but for him as representative. They died upon his command, and he couldn't not give it, but it was his decision too, sooner or later and maybe mens' lives depended on his timing or tactics…

 _I know how you're feeling, what you're thinking. Is there any better way? Or is it too late now, even if a better idea occurred? Can I do this. I have to do this. I don't want to die – I don't want to be hurt – I can't protect everyone. Can't take on every enemy myself…_

Maybe Merlin could. With his magic. Right now he might want to unleash himself, as he had a bit, sparring last night. Only what would that mean for his guidelines and safe-guards? Surely that sort of thing wasn't allowed, even in battle?

"Your fight is their fight," he added. "Let us help you. Fight with honor, Merlin. Don't lose… yourself."

No matter what the outcome, shame in the memory of the fight would ruin any victory. He knew from personal experience. Not from battles like Denaria or Fyrien, but from the druids they'd been sent against… And now here he was with a druid and a warrior of Caerleon his close companions and friends.

Merlin blinked, studying him as if he'd read Arthur heart mind and soul. Then, without speaking, he reached out and gripped Arthur's knee, squeezing it with wordless gratitude and assurance – and turned back just as the first Saxon moved into view.

Knee-length tunics and wrapped leggings, leather armor and helmets.

Merlin rose to his height, reaching over his shoulder to draw his sword in one smooth motion. Arthur pushed to standing but held back; none of the warriors behind him – most still hidden by the curve of the hill – moved.

One became three became a dozen as the Saxons moved through Caerleon's landscape – and then they noticed Merlin. And then they noticed Arthur.

Arthur drew his sword, but their attention was for Merlin as the younger prince strode forward. Hesitation – incredulity – sneering confidence. No words needed to be said – Merlin's identity as a native defender of the territory they'd invaded was obvious. Then Merlin spoke, and surprised Arthur.

"If you all surrender your weapons and your lives you will live them out in service to this kingdom, working to build and replace what you sought to tear down and steal." His voice rang out clear and determined, and pride swelled Arthur's heart.

But the Saxons saw him alone – as the bandits had seen him alone, almost a week ago – Arthur several steps behind, maybe one or two of the others. They were confident, and arrogant; none looked to his neighbor to question the response of the whole.

Which was, coarse and derisive laughter.

And weapons drawn with a raspy ring of metal.

"That's what we thought," Arthur breathed, giving his sword a spin at his side and beginning his own approach, measured and balanced, blood and air thrumming richly through lungs and veins.

Lord Baldwyn was at his side, and then the Saxons let out a roar that was more or less comprehensive, cruelly gleeful at the prospect of slaughtering what they perceived as a handful of native warriors. They charged-

And Merlin was still four paces ahead of Arthur and Baldwyn-

He inhaled and gathered himself to sprint, but Merlin's body lacked any tension of fear or doubt. Loose and fluid to the point of unconcern, he swayed sideways to avoid the first unceremonious chop to his skull, rolling his shoulder as the man's blade found nothing but air. Merlin's off hand found his chest and shoved, and the unbalanced Saxon tumbled sprawling, tripping up two more of his companions.

Baldwyn headed for them; Arthur diverted his steps to Merlin's other side as the rush of the Saxon enemy whelmed Caerleon's prince like a wave flowing over a rock too low on the shore.

Arthur had been taught to watch the eyes of his enemies, rather than their hands or even their shoulders, and the eyes that found his burned alight with greed and lust for violence. He ducked the first swing, stabbing sideways and feeling the reverberation in his blade that told him, _one down_.

Ducked the second, sidestepped the third-

Baldwyn's troops had followed their prince to a man, he thought, and all without Merlin having to give a speech or command with so much as a backward glance for encouragement or assurance. That said something about the prince, but it also said something about the caliber of Caerleon's warriors that Arthur had not hitherto suspected.

His shoulder felt good as he moved through the familiar steps – _parry, spin, kick, lunge-duck! punch, shuffle-back, elbow-duck! swipe-stab!_ His head felt good, high and clear.

The Saxons, he judged, were better than any bandits he'd ever fought. Better maybe than Cenred's mercenaries. He'd have matched his own hand-picked knights to them at five-to-one, maybe. But the warriors of Caerleon cut through them like threshers through wheat, without form or coherence but managing a deadly competence anyway.

Merlin – in the glimpses Arthur caught when he was able to look past his current or next opponent – appeared to be moving faster than he was, and tireless. Uninjured, anyway.

Arthur back-stepped from the wicked arc of a small-headed but wide-curving head of a war-ax, turned his heel on a loose rock, and let himself fall rather than stumble in trying to catch at balance. Spinning, he landed on one knee and turned into his own momentum, making his enemy chase him down–

And driving upwards beneath the man's breast-bone as he regained his feet.

Sore now, and aware of sweat in his eyes and inside his gloves and the burning pull of exertion towards exhaustion and-

The men before him were agitated, half their attention over their shoulders, raised weapons, halting, hesitating.

Twenty paces on, Arthur recognized the scarred captain from Orkan-broch. The second half of their men, attacking the Saxons from behind and almost meeting them in the middle.

He caught his breath. Some warrior of Baldwyn's raised a terrific yell of anticipated triumph – echoed by someone in Ferdrinck's band.

"No no no please!" cried the Saxon in front of Arthur, a half-bald, narrow-mouthed, shifty-eyed fellow. He threw his blade to the ground a moment later, lifting open palms to signal his surrender. The man past him did the same; two other remained in defensive positions, but didn't move to attack, twisting and darting their eyes fearfully.

It was over. It was almost over. Arthur let his own blade dip, rolling his shoulders to relax but remain ready.

Merlin was still fighting. Still at the center of the battle, every step light and firm, every movement balanced and deadly. The Saxons fell back, their efforts desperately self-defensive. One whirled as if to run, jerked short with Merlin's blade through his chest.

"Lay down your weapons!" Arthur bellowed. As long as they still carried arms, Merlin wouldn't stop. "Throw them down! Disarm yourselves and surrender, and your lives will be spared!"

Half a dozen – whether they all heard and understood or simply acted instinctively – obeyed immediately. But maybe Merlin heard Arthur's voice through whatever intensity was driving him on; he checked himself visibly, swinging around as if to sight his next enemy.

Three more laid down their swords in hurried and ostentatious ways. Now a dozen pairs of empty hands rose in the air, and several of their owners went down to their knees to make doubly sure their surrender – and their lives – were accepted. The warriors of Caerleon from both bands hooted and yelled like adolescents, releasing the tension and celebrating the victory and their own survival, openly demonstrative of feelings the knights of Camelot were taught to contain.

After one last look around, Arthur turned to Merlin, who was shouldering the enthusiastic congratulations of three and four of his men at a time like a physical burden. He gave them little notice – they didn't seem to mind – glancing around him as Arthur had done, unwilling to be taken by surprise if he was somehow wrong about the fighting being over. Then he moved toward Arthur, stepping over one body, bending to clean his sword on the fabric of another's clothing.

Blood dripped off the end of Arthur's enchanted sword also, but neither he nor it minded for the moment. He watched Merlin straighten and join him, a certain jerkiness of his movements betraying him – the energy of the fight giving way to all the sore weariness that action held at bay.

Merlin didn't meet his eyes, looking around as if he were counting the dead or wounded. He admitted to Arthur, "I'm shaking."

And if they'd been alone, or in Camelot, Arthur might've reached to touch him. To grip the back of his neck and pull the younger prince against him for comfort or support – as he might have done if they'd been brothers or cousins.

"It's over," he said only. "And it was well done. Well fought."

Some of the warriors were investigating the fallen – reviving a comrade, dispatching a dying enemy out of mercy. The low troubled clouds in the sky above them were tinted with faint sunset colors – hints of orange and pink without delineation.

"We still have an hour's march to Beckon Cove," Merlin said. "And prisoners… and wounded…"

Arthur gave him half a sardonic smile, and waited. It took him a heartbeat of frowning back at Arthur, before he realized. He turned to find Lord Baldwyn among the men, and hailed him.

"I leave the prisoners and wounded in your care, my lord," he said. "Send those who need immediate attention and may travel after us if you see fit. Make camp near here and continue on to Beckon Cove in the morning. You _will_ find it back in our possession."

"Yes, my lord," Baldwyn said.

Arthur kept his wince internal, hoping Merlin was right. He himself would hesitate to promise something like that – but Merlin's magic was formidable, and his determination… downright scary.

Movement at Arthur's elbow made him turn and remember Mordred. The druid boy's pale worry made his blue eyes appear darker and larger in his face; Arthur looked past him and saw the four horses at a bit of a distance from the battlefield, their reins caught under rocks for safekeeping, perhaps.

"You're all right?" Mordred blurted. "You've got blood on you – both of you." Arthur looked immediately to Merlin, to find his friend checking _him_ for injury.

"I'm all right, I think," Merlin said. Mordred pointed, and he straightened his sword-arm to inspect a rip in his sleeve just upward of his bracer. "No. Just a scratch. You?"

Arthur supposed any blood on him was someone else's. His trousers were torn where he'd landed on his knee, but that was no worse than a childhood scrape, running across the courtyard and tripping over a cobblestone.

"I'm going on to Beckon Cove," Merlin said, angling his sword and body to return the blade to its sheathe down his back – and now Arthur could see exhaustion and muscle strain. "You two are welcome to come – or stay with Baldwyn and his men, if you'd rather…"

Mordred looked at Arthur for the decision. He drawled deliberately, "I'm not sleeping on the ground tonight if you're planning to enjoy your own bed after all. The least you can do is guest quarters for us."

Merlin's mouth quirked toward a smile. None of them had forgotten the uncertainty of what they might find when they reached Beckon Cove, but Arthur knew Merlin was relieved for their company. And anything that proved helpful to his friend, when they reached his home to face what must be faced, Arthur was happy to give.

"All right," he said. "Let's go."

"My lord!" That was Baldwyn again, calling for a last moment of Merlin's attention. The older man gestured toward the grouping of horses Mordred had secured before picking his way across the scene of conflict. "Take my horse, Your Highness. No one doubts you could run another hour-"

Members of both bands of gathered warriors of Caerleon snorted and chuckled, and it was proud, inclusive sound that seemed to surprise Merlin.

"-But you shouldn't have to," Baldwyn concluded.

Merlin hesitated a moment more, then ducked his head in a nod of gratitude and acknowledgement. "Thank you very much, my lord."

Arthur focused on his footing, and not on what was littering the ground; Merlin seemed to have difficulty doing the same, but said nothing, and soon enough they were past the dead and dying, past the smell and the mud and blood which clung stubbornly to the soles of their boots.

It took him two hops to get his left leg solid enough in the stirrup to swing into his saddle. He noted the twitchiness of Shadow's ears; _Unusual, I know_ , he thought toward his mount.

Mordred scrambled up to Merlin's saddle on Merlin's mount, and Baldwyn's horse was a bright bay with a white blaze down its nose and four white socks of uneven lengths. They both followed as the prince of Caerleon headed the bay away from the carnage, then pressed his heels to ask for as much speed as they could manage in the falling shadows. The horses' rest was over. In the saddles, the three of them would catch what respite they could, and hope to reach Beckon Cove before darkness fell fully.

Arthur studied the set of Merlin's shoulders, past Mordred. And pray to all the gods who listened that when they arrived at Beckon Cove, they would not find… catastrophe. Or another fight.

 **A/N: A bit later than I'd hoped to get this one out, sorry. (But if you need to be reminded what they'll find at Beckon Cove, you can re-read the previous chapter. So this isn't actually a cliffie…)**


	20. And the Evening Lingers

**Chapter 20: And the Evening Lingers**

Merlin's hands tightened on his reins involuntarily, bringing Lord Baldwyn's bay gelding to a halt as the two hills they'd traveled between – steep and rocky and risky in the after-daylight dim even if he could try to conjure a light - finally, finally showing them Beckon Cove.

Immediately he leaned forward, unable to repress the urge to send his sight questing magically to the palisade and tower. What was going on? If Morgause wasn't with the Saxons, where was she? Still after Freya? Or vanished already with her prize? He needed to know… and he couldn't deny a sort of concern for Balinor, too. Would he fight Morgause? _Could_ he fight Morgause?

There were torches along the wall, watchmen stationed. Looking outward, not inward – that was reassuring. Braziers at the bottom of the stairs, illuminating dragon scales in flickers that caught reflectively and ran unexpected lengths, angles and curves as the beast shifted. And faced Merlin, who was caught in the moment like a fly in honey.

 _So_ , Kilgarrah rumbled, mildly disapproving. _Young warlock_.

Merlin was way beyond caring about manners. _Tell me of my wife_ , he demanded.

Kilgarrah twitched, and muscles rippled under fire-gleam down his shoulders. _She is alive and well._

Merlin gulped for air and control against the tremors that ran through his body. Fear that approached irrational, and would not be dissipated, only suppressed until he saw her for himself. Until he held her. _And my mother?_

 _She is gone._

Darkness fractured around him and he seemed to sink several inches down into the earth. Then he remembered Balinor cursing the dragon – You wouldn't tell me if she still lived; you said she didn't matter anymore…

 _And by gone do you mean alive and well also?_

 _She is not here. She is in a safe place somewhat distant from here. Balinor met with her this morning._

His world tilted a bit. His parents, who hadn't been together since before he was born. Had been together. He hoped it had gone well. At least it wouldn't have been a _surprise_ for either of them…

 _And Morgause?_

The dragon let his teeth show. _I killed her myself. It has been too long since humankind feared dragons appropriately. I feel this reminder of the respect due our kin will linger long in memory and rumor._

Frustration and relief, in warring measures. He was fully prepared to face Morgause on his return – and admittedly in absolutely no condition to do so. The reserves of strength would have come, he had no doubt – but from where and at what cost? Did he owe them a debt, fighting this fight for him, unasked? Or were they – still unfamiliar - as unconditional an ally as Arthur, or Baldwyn and Ferdrinck and their men?

Instead of thanking Kilgarrah, Merlin shot back resentfully, _What did you do, eat her?_

Again the teeth showed, rumbling distaste as the horned head drew back. _Sentient beings should not eat one another, and the insinuation is insulting. But allowances should be made for your upbringing._

 _Thanks ever so much._ Merlin mustered as much sarcasm as he could.

 _No. I taught her for a brief moment how inferior she was. Unable to fly, she fell._

Merlin's stomach lurched. He wasn't sure he knew the magic to save himself in that sort of situation… _Where? We'll need to recover the body…_

And made sure, he didn't say. His education wasn't comprehensive – Morgause might have known something… Also he couldn't help thinking of Morgana. Didn't they all long for something they couldn't have, in regretting relationships that had been nonexistent, frustrating, unsatisfactory?

 _Balinor has already done so. The body is an empty, broken vessel. The people here have prepared it for disposal._

He swallowed hard. He wanted to say, Good, and mean it. But his rage had cooled as the need for it had died with her – and death was so final. He wasn't sure she could ever have been brought to acknowledge the error of the way she'd chosen, like Morgana had done in the spring, but now her chance was gone forever. And somehow that was different than meeting the charge of the armed Saxons, or the bandits, and ending lives in battle.

But he was certain these thoughts were going to plague him for a long while – he didn't have to answer them now.

 _What of the king and queen, do you know?_

The dragon shifted again, turning slightly away as if his attention was drifting from their conversation. _Evacuated to a place near here, where druids once practiced their magic._

Merlin knew the place – it wasn't far from where they were. _Do they know that Morgause is dead, and the Saxons gone from Beckon Cove?_

Kilgarrah stretched delicately, and ignored the question, and Merlin interpreted – he didn't know the answer, nor did he care.

 _Remind me to thank you in person_ , he told the dragon sardonically, by way of farewell.

And swayed in placed as he snapped back to his saddle atop Baldwyn's gelding, sweat damp and chilly under his hair, beneath his shirt and armor. Hands caught and steadied him, clumsy-rough at his shoulder as his head sagged before his neck remembered to hold it up.

"Merlin! What is it, what happened?" Arthur's voice, though Arthur himself was little more than an indistinct shape in the gloom of approaching night.

And Mordred on his other side. "Your eyes were gold with magic for… several moments, Emrys."

"Yeah – it's all right." Deliberately he regained control of himself – all his limbs, his sight, and his tongue. "Sorry. I just… I just had to see."

"What did you see?" Arthur asked.

Merlin told them enough, briefly and not bothering to try to report each of the dragon's words. There was an unspoken undercurrent of _You believe him?_ he couldn't quite deny. Would the dragon lie outright? would he deliberately mislead? He guessed from what Balinor had said that Kilgarrah omitted and maybe shaded the truth to suit himself, at least. Neglected explanation, at least.

As he finished, he turned the bay's head and pressed his bootheels to urge the mount onward again.

"Where are you going?" Arthur said, a second slow to respond, as if he was surprised by the change in direction.

"To the druid encampment. I've got to report to my king and queen before… before anything else," Merlin said wearily. Then realized, they felt the same exhaustion he did. "You can go on to the tower, though. They should let you in and see to your needs."

Arthur made a skeptical noise. "How far is it to this camp? I'm not sure I believe you can make the trip there without falling off that horse – and he'll leave you behind, you know he will, he's not yours – and how should I sleep then tonight, worrying about you?"

"Worrying?" Merlin echoed, reining in when they didn't immediately follow, but couldn't summon sarcasm for Arthur.

"Listen. Your wife is there – your father is there. They're waiting for you, and anyone can take your report to Their Majesties. I will go to them – you go to Beckon Cove."

"You don't know the way," Merlin protested, trying to fight his desire to do exactly as Arthur suggested, trying to remember his duty.

"I know enough. They'll have scouts out anyway, won't they? They'll be sure to pick me up."

"Us," Mordred said quietly, a solid shadow on Merlin's other side. "I can find it, Emrys. When we get close, I'll feel it – and I'd… like to go there. Just to see."

Merlin twisted his reins indecisively. "Still… I should…"

"Go to your wife," Arthur advise, his voice husky-low. And maybe he was thinking of Gwen, and how long he might have yet before he went home to Camelot. And then he wondered if he'd said that out loud when Arthur added, "Shut up, Merlin. Go – I'll see you later."

"I'll have your guest room ready and waiting," Merlin said. _All right. Thank you. See you soon._

"Caerleon hospitality. I can hardly wait." The sound of Arthur's chuckle rose over the squeak of saddle and jingle of tack and click of hooves on stony ground as the other two moved away from him into the night.

Hells, he hoped the king and queen were going to share Arthur's view of the report. If they were still at the encampment, they probably didn't know that Kilgarrah had killed Morgause… And who commanded Beckon Cove in their absence, and his? Was his father alone there with Freya?

Bloody hells, she must have been terrified.

Beneath him, Lord Baldwyn's bay began to jog toward the distant glow of the tower and palisade.

There were others to consider too, other questions to be answered. What had Morgause done before Kilgarrah caught her? What damage done by the Saxons that caused an evacuation? What losses might he find upon his arrival? Ferdrinck had told him Gwaine and his young nephew had gone to carry the warning when the invaders first crossed Caerleon soil. And the warriors who he'd gotten to know as equals since the spring – accepted as one of their number rather than isolated by his inexperience and ineptitude. And the servants, and…

The feeling bearing down his shoulders and compressing his chest identified itself as guilt.

This was all because of him. Because Morgause blamed him for the failure of her plans in Camelot that spring. Of course he had not opposed her alone, but. And surely it could not be better to fight so ruthlessly no enemy was ever left behind…

Hadn't Uther done that, on occasion. And didn't it always result in reaction and resentment to such heavy-handed tactics? Caerleon was like that, too, brutal and merciless – and they had no allies beyond the tentative understanding with the lawless Southrons, and his own unwritten relationship with Camelot's regent.

Can't control everything. Can't anticipate and prevent, every time…

At least it looked like his warding magic on the walls had held; Merlin stiffened his neck against his head's inclination to bob as he trotted Baldwyn's bay gelding down the lane along the wall toward the gate.

"Who goes there?" The sharp query startled him, though he'd been expecting it.

"It's Merlin," he called back, not slowing his horse. "Open the gate. The Saxons have been dealt with, and I know you know the witch was killed also. Their Majesties have been sent for…"

A cheer of sorts rose from within, even as the gates were cranked open to admit him. The sound was nowhere near strong and hearty, and as he ducked to ride into the bailey, he realized why – the remaining defenders were few, and wounded, and weary. He was aware of Kilgarrah, further into the dark of the unlit bailey, but the dragon was still and silent, and he focused on his men, trying to summon a smile for them.

"It's over," he said, meeting one set of eyes after another. "It's done."

Sighs of relief rather than another cheer reached him as he swung his leg over his saddle and let himself drop to the ground. He had to steady himself a moment so his legs wouldn't buckle or stumble beneath him.

One of the men came to take the bay's lead. "This isn't your gelding, m'lord?"

"No, he belongs to Lord Baldwyn. Landsdown and Orkan-broch will be here tomorrow…" Not really their concern, but they could spread the news and anticipate the reinforcements. "Speaking of, where's Gwaine?"

"Try inside – the receiving hall."

"Thanks, boys," he said, stepping away from the bay gelding and addressing the warriors who'd gathered at his arrival – down on the ground, up on the wall. "You've done splendidly in my absence – my thanks."

Some nodded, some bent slightly further in Caerleon's version of a bow. Merlin's throat tightened inexplicably – he didn't deserve it, he'd been absent in their time of need, and he turned abruptly to head for the stairs to the tower.

Three steps, and he realized there was someone else waiting for him, there. For one second he thought it might be Gwaine – then he recognized the boot-length coat.

Emotions curled and tangled in his gut at the sight of his father, insufficiently illuminated in the falling darkness by lit braziers at the sides of the bottom step. He kept going at a determined trudge, ready to pass the man in silence rather than decide what he wanted to say or do.

Evidently Balinor didn't feel the same. He called out when Merlin was still a dozen paces away, "You're alone? You're not hurt, are you? That was a different horse than you were riding before…"

"I'm fine," he said shortly, his eyes on the ground so he wouldn't trip in his exhaustion. "Arthur and Mordred went to report to my king and queen that they can return. Unless someone was sent to bear the news after your dragon took Morgause flying?"

"He's not my dragon," Balinor responded. "And, I don't know if any messenger went to the king and queen. Freya would know, she's been-"

Merlin's step quickened at the mention of her name, and he lifted his gaze to the closed doors of the tower, needing to find her and see for himself she was all right. Needing to hold her forever, before the tension knotting between his stomach and his heart would relent.

Almost he forgot his father, in the moment, and was startled by the older man's hand on his chest, stopping him in place. "You were fighting?"

He stared into Balinor's bearded scowl, astonished at the resentment that surged into him at the question. What right did Balinor have to delay him, to question him? With the very words and tone a father might use on a young son, late home after finding trouble.

"The hell does it matter to you?" he said.

"It matters," Balinor returned aggressively, "because Kilgarrah and I flew here to protect you, to keep you from having to fight a witch and her mercenary army."

"Then I guess you were only half-successful." Merlin was aware of the pressure of his father's hand on the front of his breastplate. Maybe he was leaning into it, just a little bit. "I've handled Morgause before, and I could've done it again – and our warriors did just fine against the Saxons, here and elsewhere. What you did was cut the troops from the leader that kept them organized – they could have attacked innocent villagers for plunder or supplies if they fled here for fear of the dragon."

"They attacked innocent villages under the witch's leadership anyway," Balinor snapped. "And that was two days ago."

Merlin's hands clenched in fists, and heat rose behind his breastbone, because… it was true. He'd been absent, he'd been _late_. "Damn you," he said calmly. "And damn Kilgarrah, too. It should have been me here to save Freya, to face Morgause. Not you."

Balinor didn't take offense, and he was slightly disappointed at that. "I understand you're upset with me, but I'm not sorry we did what we did. I'd do it again. A father is meant to protect his children-"

Merlin said a worse word, and shoved past the dragonlord.

It hurt to hear – he didn't anticipate this sort of irrational reaction. Intellectually he knew and understood the reason for his father's lifelong absence, he forgave and maybe even agreed, and definitely recognized how those events long ago had shaped his life into something important, something he wouldn't change any longer. But emotionally…

"My father did the same." Balinor's voice trembled, and it stopped Merlin on the fourth stair like an earth-tremor beneath his feet, though he didn't turn. "He suspected Uther would move against us, and he sent me away. Before I knew my errand was a ruse, Pendragon's men had attacked and killed my entire family. I know what it feels like to regret not being _there_ , but this time I saved my family and I won't apologize for that, no matter how angry you think you-"

Merlin spun, glaring down at the older man. "It isn't that," he said. Not entirely; just a little bit. He wasn't a child after all, he was a warrior fully capable of fighting a man's fight. "You are not one of my men but if you were I'd challenge you to single combat for insubordination."

Balinor's eyes widened fractionally. Merlin thudded two steps downward again for the emphasis that proximity lent.

"If I had no wife," he said. "If Morgause had no personal reason to hurt who I loved. Still it was my right. My responsibility. Caerleon is mine to defend. Mine the throne and the crown, when the king is gone – mine the _decision_ , and how dare you. Take that. From me."

Balinor was silent, his eyes startled thoughtful – but even as Merlin watched his assumptions shift, he retreated, too.

Dammit.

"Don't," Merlin said tiredly, shaking his head. "Don't leave. My home is your home, whenever you want it and for as long as you like. We can shout at each other tomorrow."

Balinor adjusted his stance subtly. There might have been a smile beneath his beard. He said without sarcasm, "Yes, my lord."

Merlin turned to climb the rest of the stairs, and they seemed nearly insurmountable. Why had he done that? Didn't the assertion of his authority make this burden of guilty and culpability that much heavier?

Felt like it.

The doors weren't barred, but he only tugged one open long enough to slip through without snagging his sword-hilt. The hall was dimly lit by brighter lights streaming through the doors of the feast-chamber on his right, but no one stood watch and he came to the arch unnoticed by those within.

People reposed throughout the room, on the tables, on benches pushed together, on the floor with cushions and pallets and blankets. A double handful of warriors, wounded and in various stages of recovery – some slouching more or less upright over a dinner-bowl, some resting prone. There were also far more people in common dress, far more children than Beckon Cove regularly housed, and he recognized only a few of the servants. Damn. Refugees, then, from the villages Balinor had claimed Morgause and the Saxons attacked.

His attention was captured by the form of a young girl with shoulder-length brown curls, in a dress he recognized, bending over an older woman huddled on one of the benches. Freya wore that honey-yellow dress when she expected to work in the bakehouse or take an archery lesson with Annis.

Merlin strode forward, his throat closing on a call of her name, his fingers closing around her upper arm-

"Oh!" the girl said, whirling to show wide blue-gray eyes.

Not Freya. He let go in confusion. "Sorry, I thought you were-" But no, it _was_ Freya's dress. "The princess?"

"Prince Merlin?" the girl said, awe creeping into her surprise – and whispers began to spread among those nearest, to mark his arrival. "Oh, it's good you're here!"

"Freya," he said insistently. Of course the girl had a legitimate tale of woe, but Freya was his priority in the moment.

"She's… by the fire," the girl said, after a moment of searching the people for one in particular, as Merlin was doing.

He should have seen her first. He should have noticed her first, sensing her presence and location somehow – he moved away from the girl wearing Freya's dress, heading for the silhouette crouched at the fire. He was only distantly aware of words and phrases directed at him in greeting by those he passed among.

"It's the prince!"

"…Looks like he's been fighting…"

"…Alive and well, though."

"Oh, thank heavens, Prince Merlin!"

"She'll be so glad to see…"

The figure at the hearth stood, turning, and he knew her. Each line, each curve, each infinitesimal part of the motion. She was still the dark shape of his wife against the flickering flames on the hearth when he crashed into her, wrapping himself around her and inhaling deeply of the scent of her hair. Unhurt… _unbothered_ …

"Oh!" she said, just like the girl, surprised. Then she wriggled and twined her arms around him to get even closer. "Oh, _Merlin_..."

He squeezed his eyes shut, denying the tears, trying to keep breathing even as he spoke in a breathless involuntary mumble. "I'm sorry, I'm sorry, so sorry…"

"It's fine," she said, pressing her face into his neck. "You're here now. I _missed_ you – oh, how I missed you. I wished you were here-"

His heart contracted, flinching with guilt inside of him.

"But the dragon came. Your father came. I'm all right." She pulled away slightly, and he let her, mindful of his armor. There was a bandage around her wrist and the only smile he could give her felt twisted.

"Yes, it seems my father is quite the hero," he said.

"Are you all right?" she asked, a worried frown forming as she took in his condition. "You haven't been just traveling…"

"We met the Saxons," he told her. "With men from Landsdown and Orkan-broch."

"And you defeated them?" she assumed, tilting her head so her eyes connected with his. "They retreated from here when the dragon landed, I think. I didn't want to send someone to Annis til we knew it was safe…"

He made a sound in the back of his throat, unhappy that his home had to be defended by another, someone who made different choices than he might have. "They weren't inclined to surrender. There were a few survivors… Arthur went to bring the news to Annis and the king."

"You stayed with him, then?" Her fingers found the tear in his sleeve, and lightly explored the scabbed and smeared blood underneath. "Merlin… His Majesty was gravely injured."

Darkness shifted around the edges of his vision, and he felt incapable of movement, focusing on her movements and feeling nothing. What was he going to do if-

"I'll be glad when they're both home," she added. "I do not enjoy being the one in command."

He was able to huff in pained amusement, then, understanding the sentiment. And maybe Freya's idea of _gravely injured_ wasn't close to what the warriors would consider such. Except, "It's too late to change your mind about being queen someday. I'm sorry."

"I'm not," she countered gently. "I'd rather have you, than not. But I have worse news – Merlin, Tythan was killed. I didn't see, but I was told that he died to give me time to get away – to get to your schoolroom, and your magic protected me there. Long enough for the dragon and your father to get here."

Tythan was killed. No. Ah hells, no.

Merlin's ribs clenched tight around his lungs and the firelight swam in his eyes. Had he even said a deliberate farewell to the man who'd raised him probably more than Thurston, even? Tythan had given him so much, over the years – teaching him not just about sword-craft, but all the wisdom that should accompany such deadly skill.

"Where is he?" he managed. "Here in this room?"

"No, we moved him to the crypts. When there's time, I'm sure there will be a ceremony…"

Merlin nodded, covering her hand on his arm, and squeezing the slight injury very tightly. That he could come away from this conflict fairly untouched – that any other should have died to keep Morgause from capturing Freya…

She abandoned her concern for the scratch on his arm, her eyes seeking his. "Please don't do that," she said quietly. "Please don't blame yourself. That's what she wanted, to hurt you by hurting me, and all of us, and I don't want her to win, after all. She's gone, and I'm fine and yes, there were those who died, but _we survived_. Caerleon triumphed. So… please, Merlin."

Freya laid her palm against his cheek – he needed a shave, he knew, a shave and a wash and to take off his armor and change his clothes – and pulled him down again, gathering him to her with her arm over his shoulder opposite the sword-hilt. He slid his arms around her waist again gently, resting his chin on her shoulder as she breathed against the side of his neck.

Moments passed and they stood so, closer than close, and he tried to adjust his emotions with each breath. Tried to let go of the burden Freya didn't want him to bear, and reminded himself of what Arthur had said about accepting aid, even what he hadn't specifically delegated.

And hadn't he been teasing the other prince about his illogical quest, alone and unaided? And Arthur had been gracious, really, about the failure of those required details, and allowed Merlin himself to accompany, even to take the lead in bringing him to Balinor for healing magic. And he hadn't been angry with Merlin for the result of the dragon's unsolicited prophecy.

It was humility, maybe, which they'd tried to train out of him, here in Caerleon. And which he ought to be grateful to Freya for reminding him of.

Maybe he wouldn't shout at his father tomorrow.

He squeezed her gently, and sighed. Now wasn't the time or place to keep holding her. "Where's Gwaine?"

"Over there… go on, and I'll bring you a dish of dinner."

….*….. …..*….. …..*….. …..*….. …..*…..

Morgana stood on the heights of the shore southeast of Trevena, the sea breezes stirring tendrils of her hair, the whispering of the waves a constant chorus filling her ears. For sheer contentment and enjoyment of life, she let her balance tip forward and began to run lightly down the embankment.

Her foot turned on a stone or a clod or an unexpected hollow, and she flung out her arms to avoid falling down the hill – but instead of going down, she floated up.

Which was interesting and amusing and agreeable, for the first moment, lifting back to the level of the top of the slope.

But she kept going, as if she was less than weightless, like a soap bubble rising and rising without apparent reason, and soon she was level with the treetops behind the coast and now she was scared because she couldn't control this. She looked down to the ground – still above the earth of the shore, not the water of the sea – and nothing was keeping her up and what if this strange power broke and she-

She cleared the trees, still soaring. And now she was terrified – there was nothing around her, nothing level with her to grab onto, to keep herself close to where she belonged, only the wide sky and thin lines of clouds and bright sunlight. She'd carry on ascending forever, into the vast unknown and everything – everyone – she loved left behind. She struggled, then, trying to go down as if she could swim through the air, and she heard voices.

"How is he doing? What did your healer say?"

"Haelend says the wound is closing. No sign of infection, so far. But it was deep, and such a terrible place… it will take some time for him to recover after losing so much blood. He hasn't really woken. He's opened his eyes and swallowed some wine mixed with water, some broth, but…"

Voices she recognized enough to know, she was not among strangers. The glare of the sunny day, blue sky and blue sea, faded to indistinct gray and now she was heavier than the air, heavier than the earth that molded to her back from head to heel.

Someone was seriously injured. She thought of Arthur – not one of the knights, the voices didn't fit, it was someone significant. She thought of Merlin.

"My lady – I am so sorry."

"It's not your fault."

"I know. I just wish we could have done… something more."

There was guilt in the hazy consideration, as if she herself was responsible for the wound, and she struggled against that as fiercely as she fought the drifting sensation. _I didn't do it. I never want to do anything to deserve this feeling_.

"What of your lady?"

"I don't know what happened. We saw Beckon Cove – we saw the dragon. And if he was fighting, he was fighting… her sister, Morgause."

"The witch."

"Yes… Morgana went absolutely white… if she'd fallen the other way out of the saddle, she'd have hit the ground. Luckily I caught her, but… I couldn't rouse her."

"Her condition is connected to the events at Beckon Cove, somehow? To her sister, perhaps?"

"I would guess. Finna, her tutor in magic, might know for sure, but we left her at the River Rusk to travel fast. Morgana did no magic, though, that I'm sure of."

"Would you like Haelend to examine her? How long was your ride here, and she didn't wake?"

"Long enough to worry us all. But she's breathing steadily and her color is good and her heartbeat is strong… I do not think we need to trouble your healer just yet."

Morgana opened her eyes and thought herself in a tomb. It did not bring panic with it, but peace. The stone was high as a ceiling above her, sheltering rather than trapping, and warmed with flickers of moving light. The sensation of _it's-all-over_ brought relief, and rest.

Another voice broke the pause, soft and calm. "What shall we do, my lady?"

"Without further confirmation on the status of Beckon Cove… I hesitate to have the king moved. Or Lady Morgana. And I hate to divide my men for an escort, to go myself and leave them here – even in your capable hands, my lord."

"It is past sundown, now, and we are still a few hours' walk from Beckon Cove. Little should change if we waited for first light…"

"I dislike waiting and not knowing for sure."

Morgana turned her head to seek the source of the light, and met the kind eyes of an older woman wearing a green scarf over her hair. Her muscles contracted toward sitting, and the woman reached to support her effort. There was a wooden cup in her other hand.

"Have some water," she said in a voice that was soothing – Morgana found her vaguely familiar. "Slow sips – not too much… How do you feel?"

Tired, and sore. Like she'd done great magic. Like she'd fallen from a… great height.

"What happened?" she managed hoarsely.

The woman glanced up and shifted back, and Acollyn crouched beside Morgana. "We were rather hoping you could tell us?"

Her fingers tested the woven straw or reeds of a pallet underneath her. Past Acollyn was another woman leaning against the wall with her arms crossed – Queen Annis, and now Morgana recognized the woman in the green scarf as Merlin's mother. Past the queen, her face drawn and lined with tension, on a bed with a lantern set next to it, a man lay unmoving.

The wounded man was the king of Caerleon, and Morgause was responsible.

" _Riders approaching_!" The shout came from outside the tiny chamber. Annis was watching Morgana, but at the sound she straightened and disappeared through a doorway without a word. Morgana had the impression that there was open sky through that opening.

"Morgana?" Acollyn prompted gently.

That spring when they attacked Camelot, Morgana had come to believe that the magic they used had been an error – a moral wrong, as Merlin had explained. Which led to his opposition, which led to their defeat. But the goal of their enterprise had been morally defendable, to remove a tyrant and clear the way for magic to return. Even if, in hindsight, it might have gone worse in spite of the use of justifiable magic, rather than anything that could be argued _dark_.

But this attack of her sister's against Caerleon, against Beckon Cove and Merlin – through Freya – nothing about that could be claimed toward any good end. It was nothing but revenge, returning hurt for hurt, targeting innocents and careless of casualties, and when she saw Morgause again… when she saw…

For a white moment she saw that tiny speck falling away, out from under the black scrap of the dragon's shape in the air – and simultaneously, the ground far below her from her dream, shrinking away as she lifted, weightless and terrifyingly free.

 _Did I just… did I just watch my sister die?_

The dragon had said, _We will handle this_. And if the dragonlord was Merlin's father, of course it would be personal for them, Morgause threatening Merlin's wife.

Morgana threaded trembling fingers into her hair and squeezed her head to distract herself. _My sister is dead. Heaven and hell, my sister… is… dead_.

"Love?" Acollyn breathed. One knee down for balance and stability, and his arms gentle and strong around her, holding her together, keeping her shriek of denial and pain trapped inside her like a wounded animal in a trap, snarling and twisting and seeking release.

She was going to vomit with the pain and sickness of heart. Why oh why had she failed to reach Morgause to change her way of thinking, persuade her she was wrong, warn her to amend her goals or at least to release her grudges? Before it was too late, and the enemies she made ended her instead…

"My lord," someone said at the door. "They say the messenger arriving with our scouts is your prince."

Acollyn interpreted that bit of news before she was able to, twisting toward the door. "Arthur? Is here? Why would he be carrying messages in Caerleon?"

Morgana decided she had to see for herself. Had to get out of this stifling little chamber, had to seek distraction in activity. Had to find out for herself – about Arthur, about Merlin and Freya, about… Morgause. She pushed back from Acollyn's embrace, keeping her grip on his arms.

"Help me up."

He did so, attentive to the steadiness of her legs under her, and Hunith was a warm support behind her, rising with her.

"What is this place?" she blurted, impatient with physical weakness and trying to will herself stronger.

"The druids stay here sometimes," Hunith explained, relinquishing her place to Acollyn and backing toward the king on the bed – still unconscious in the severity of his wound. "Not just now, though…"

Morgana felt achy, angry and sad at once, and it was unbearable – but she wasn't a child to throw herself across her bed multiple times daily and weep stormy feelings to exhaustion. Loss was so final, so uncontrollable, and she wanted someone to blame, but her reactions were blaming everyone equally, including herself, and it was dizzying and uncomfortable. And it wouldn't change anything anyway, would it?

"You want to see Arthur?" Acollyn said to her in a low voice. "I don't think he knows we're here, unless they tell him…"

She didn't answer. But for his hand on her arm, on her back, reassuringly supportive and loving, she might have collapsed back into voluntary oblivion. She didn't look at the injured king on the bed, and only vaguely realized that Hunith remained with him when the older woman's footsteps didn't follow theirs outside.

The room was a cave, evidently, hewn into the cliffside by nature or man or magic. There were a couple dozen such surrounding them, some claimed by hooded warriors with fire- or torch-light, others left black holes in the deepening evening.

Perhaps she could pick one a little later for her own. It would match the feeling spreading slowly but inexorably in her chest. She could weep hysterically there and disturb no one.

There was a little slope of rocky earth downward at her feet, and a group of people just distinguishable, coming into view at the far end of a dusty road that wound at the bottom of more-or-less-sheer cliffsides. One in skirts – Queen Annis – and two leading horses. One of them would be Arthur – was the other Merlin? Or wouldn't the warrior at the door have said that?

As she marched down the slope and reached level ground, her knees ceased to wobble uncertainly, her muscles stretched out again – _if Morgause is dead, she'll never walk again, striding and stalking with such enviable confidence_ …

She couldn't think that, not and maintain composure.

Only a few more paces, and she could recognize Annis, speaking to Arthur as they came to the encampment, half a dozen warriors accompanying them in a ranging formation. The other dismounted rider was shorter than Arthur by head and shoulders – not Merlin, then, but not one of the warriors, either. He was listening to the royals' conversation, but lifted his head to look at Morgana; she ignored him, focused on Arthur who didn't seem to have noticed them, yet.

Morgana stopped; they'd reach her in a moment anyway, and Acollyn stepped to her side, awaiting the regent they'd probably disobeyed. If her husband was nervous about crossing an enemy's border without permission, Morgana didn't sense it. She wasn't, at all. But Acollyn's hand came to rest at the back of her waist, and she _needed_ that. She reached back to cover his fingers with her own, and so they stood.

"So the Saxons have been dealt with," the queen was saying as they came within earshot.

"Yes, my lady. I estimate a dozen or less casualties among Merlin's men. Maybe as many Saxon survivors."

Morgana had seen only about a dozen Saxons in the basin, doing the scrying spell with Finna. _Ready your men – we ride for Caerleon immediately_. That was the last thing she'd ever heard her sister say.

She wondered distantly, how many Saxons altogether. And there had been a battle – and somehow Arthur had joined. Of course Arthur had joined – hadn't Merlin done the same against Cenred's mercenaries? Such an illogical code of nobility those two had… But how many more casualties, how many men wounded as the king was wounded?

"Merlin's first battle as captain…" Annis mused.

"You should have seen him," Arthur said. "You'd be proud."

The tone of his voice eased the worry that touched her. He'd been riding; he'd been walking; of course he was fine. But if he could sound sarcastic and amused at once like that, he was more than just uninjured. He was _fine_.

"Perhaps we won't wait, then," Annis said, stopping in place. Arthur and the boy stopped too; she looked past her attendant warriors at Morgana, speaking as much to her and Acollyn as to the rest of them. "Beckon Cove is ours again. We can be there several hours before midnight. Our resources here are not unlimited, and sooner is better than later, I think. There will be plenty of work tomorrow – and a night's rest in our own beds will prepare us for that."

Acollyn inclined his head to indicate his agreement, at least. Morgana did not care in the least; she'd be with him no matter what.

"Of course you are under no one's command but your own," Annis added to Arthur. "But I would be pleased to offer you better accommodations at the fortress, if you'd travel with us. And stay as long as you like. Please excuse me, now – I'll send someone with food while we organize our departure."

"Thank you," Arthur said, though she didn't wait to acknowledge his gratitude, sweeping past Acollyn and beginning to call out the names of several of her men.

In following her with his eyes, Arthur's gaze fell upon Morgana and Acollyn, and she braced herself, uncertain of his reaction. He'd embraced her unhesitatingly in the ruins of the mercenary camp where they'd effected her rescue, this spring. She'd put her arms around him when he first questioned her about her disappearance, acting traumatized in her bedroom; she'd put her arms around him the very moment after the last time she'd seen her sister in person, in the valley of the fallen kings – he'd held her, and forgiven her then.

But she couldn't help remembering the dreadful trepidation she'd felt when Morgause had informed her, Arthur was aware of their collusion to overthrow his father. She couldn't help being aware of the lingering effects of the dark magic they'd used on Arthur's parent, regardless whether Uther deserved it. In this her sister's last act of defiance and revenge, she was not complicit; she'd tried to warn them and prevent it happening, but… they were sisters. And now she had to mourn.

Arthur's expression didn't change, as if he wasn't surprised to see her. Maybe someone had told him, maybe he'd guessed that she couldn't be anywhere else, but… Without looking aside, he handed his reins to the boy – black hair, round youthful face, watchful eyes – and strode forward.

"My lord," Acollyn said, bowing formally.

Arthur took no obvious notice of her husband. His intensity didn't slow or abate til he took her in his arms almost roughly. The embrace startled her though she'd been thinking of such, as much with its abruptness as with how much she welcomed it. Hadn't known she needed it – different from her husband's expressed love and concern.

"I'm so sorry," Arthur whispered in her ear, sounding hoarse and tired. He smelled of sweat and battle, too, and she was glad she hadn't lost him. That they all hadn't lost him. "Merlin said the dragon said… Morgause was killed. He was furious – I think he thought if he'd been there, he could have done something… else."

If Merlin had been there. Would he have her sister's death on his hands and conscience? Would he have let Morgause hurt more people in trying to stop her and save her life?

No, if Morgana had been there, she could have done something. So maybe it was Arthur's fault for making them delay at the border… But that would be Uther's fault, for the enmity between Camelot and Caerleon, and Arthur was trying to improve that with Merlin.

She clung to Arthur for a long moment, unable to speak.

Always she'd wanted a sister. Other people had siblings, but her mother was gone from her earliest memory. Sprinting through the halls of Trevena or riding bareback along the sandy shore, salty breeze in her hair, she'd wanted a sister – and she'd had her devoted companion in Acollyn. In Camelot she'd chosen Gwen, who was steadfastly loving, though always there was the hitch of their differing status… that might be changing, soon. In Camelot she'd endured Arthur with impatience and annoyance and it had been a long time before they'd been anything more than resistant rivals, rare moments gradually becoming more common.

Like the one… she opened her eyes and blinked away tears to look over his shoulder, the boy with the reins and the watchful eyes and the… small smile changing his face. Like the time she'd dressed and supped with Uther Pendragon after the summary execution of a druid who'd only come to buy supplies in the market. Trusting her rival and the son of her enemy and a Pendragon prince to rescue the druid's boy from the dungeon of Camelot so she wouldn't be implicated or blamed, having earned the king's rage.

Was it the same boy? How many years later? What nearly-impossible twist of fate had brought this about – and did Arthur know?

It occurred to her that she had no fear of Arthur finding out anyone – stranger or not – had magic. It occurred to her to wonder if he trusted that she wouldn't become her sister any more than he would become his father.

But even Seers can't know everything the future holds.

Arthur pulled away as Acollyn said, "I hope you can forgive us, my lord, for trespassing beyond our own borders…"

The prince waved away the apology. "I trust you to go where Morgana must go, and be her protection. Morgana – you remember Mordred, don't you?"

"How could I forget?" she said. So much had happened since that one day and night – and he probably had more reason to remember Arthur, than her. But she'd thought of him since then, wondering where he'd gone and what he was doing.

"I'm very sorry for your loss," Mordred said in a quiet, even tone.

She managed a smile; she'd let herself mourn when she was home again. And if she didn't want to break down and embarrass herself – and possibly offend every citizen of Caerleon, which after all was a consideration – people had to quit speaking of it. "Thank you," she said. Those watchful eyes were shy of hers, now. "How odd to meet you here after all this time – did you used to live here?"

Mordred lifted his head to glance around the cave-riddled cliffs. "No, I never came here before," he said, his voice controlled and betraying no emotion. "I wish I had – it feels peaceful."

Arthur shook his head in a rueful way, and she read his thought. Ironic that the druids would find barbaric Caerleon a more peaceful place than Camelot.

But she knew what Mordred meant, after a moment for reflection. It was a refuge, a haven; she felt safe, here. Maybe there were lingering spells of protection from those who had gone before… And that was the way of life, wasn't it? She'd lost her mother and gained Acollyn; she'd lost her father and gained Gwen and eventually Arthur. Now she'd lost her sister – the thought still an angry hole in her heart, bored right through her chest – but here was Mordred.

"We will have to talk," she said to Mordred. "I am curious to know how you and Arthur met and joined company."

Mordred pressed his lips together in an almost-grimace, and looked at Arthur, and Arthur looked at him and something strange and deep passed between them – some secret, some understanding.

"We have a ways to walk," Arthur said only. "Mordred, this is Morgana's husband, Sir Acollyn of Trevena."

Beside her, Acollyn smiled and extended his hand. Mordred looked hesitant, but stepped forward to accept his grip briefly, before Acollyn turned to Arthur. "And I am curious to know how your quest has gone, Sire."

It was Arthur's turn to bite down a grimace – and that made Morgana curious, the emotion a cool relief from the burn of grief and anger. How had he come to return to Caerleon rather than Camelot, and so close to the time of her sister's attack?

 _Oh, Morgause. Why did you have to fight? Why did you have to try to hurt Merlin? If only you could have come home to Trevena and rested your grudges…_

Perhaps if Morgause could have grown up in Trevena, traveled to Camelot before adolescence and adulthood… Perhaps it was only a trick of fate that her sister's magic was apparent in early childhood, leading to her sanctuary on the Isle, then decimated and scattered into a tumultuous and uncertain life. And she hadn't discovered her own magic til young adulthood, when there was someone there to protect her, and teach her – Merlin through Finna, but also Morgause…

It could be said that Morgause's life had been sacrificed to protect her own. The thought satisfied her grief, at least for now.

…..*….. …..*….. …..*….. …..*….. …..*…..

Arthur was glad that for once, Morgana forbore with her questions til he was ready. Maybe she was feeling subdued though – he thought he could understand a little of what she was experiencing. At separate times he'd had to consider her, as the closest thing he had to a sibling, lost through death – and responsible, at least partially, for an attack on innocent people.

Though he at least had the comfort of relief, that his sister – in all but fact – had been influenced and encouraged and convinced to adjust the path she'd chosen, before it was too late.

He was chewing a bite of stale bread, watching Mordred politely devour his own portion, and wondering if they had been given someone else's ration, or the very last of what must have been hastily packed in a besieged castle when they left their home, when Hunith came.

"Prince Arthur?" said a woman's voice, behind his shoulder. Familiar, but he didn't recognize the soft, even tones fully til he turned.

"Oh – Hunith," Arthur said, reminded and embarrassed to have forgotten. "Merlin mentioned you were here – the dragon told him, apparently…"

"Is he all right?" Hunith asked, brushing back a lock of hair that had escaped her scarf. "I was told there was a battle – you've fought the Saxons and won?"

In the pale flickering light of the torches that would march with them back to the stronghold, she looked like she'd aged more than the season that had past since he'd met her, visiting Merlin captive in Camelot. Though he probably looked as old as his father, too. He felt it.

"Yes, my lady," Arthur said. "To both the questions. In my opinion he did a fine job leading the men from Baldwyn's estate, and Orkan-broch. He fought well, he wasn't wounded really."

She nodded, probably understanding that warriors wouldn't consider cuts and bruises and scrapes as _wounded_.

"We made him go straight to Beckon Cove, though," Arthur added, a bit tentatively. The queen hadn't blinked at the news, and it was a pity the king wasn't in a condition to react, from what Annis told him of her husband's own injury.

But Hunith nodded again, more emphatically. "Good," she said. "I can't wait to see that Freya's all right, myself. I'm sure there's a story behind you and Merlin traveling and fighting together-"

"A short one," he said, and he'd already told Annis as much. Morgana was standing close enough to overhear, and look interested; Acollyn just arriving with their horses. "Not yet a day after our paths separated, I was taken by bandits. Mordred was also a captive, and called to Merlin with magic, and Merlin… persuaded the bandits to let me go."

"Persuaded," Acollyn said. Morgana snorted, sarcastic in her heightened emotions. Kept mostly under control, which he greatly appreciated, as it was awkward at best for her to indulge expressions of grief and receive comfort, here and among these people.

Arthur gave half a smile to the other knight. "He knew that my quest had to be alone and unaided, but I said he didn't qualify as help or company…"

Hunith looked at Mordred; his lips were pinched and his eyes were wide as he looked at Arthur, but never would he retract or add to that version of the story. "Mordred," she said gently, and he actually flinched to give her a swift glance before dropping his eyes. "Were you taken from your family?"

Not exactly. Arthur knew his blood family had been taken from him, and his druid family had turned him out.

"No, my lady," Mordred said in a husky whisper. "My family's dead."

Arthur was between the two of them and Morgana; they probably didn't hear her breath catch, and he didn't draw attention by looking at her.

Hunith reached to touch Mordred's shoulder, slowly and lightly, probably guessing why the boy had remained with Arthur and Merlin, then. "My son probably told you this, but you are welcome to a home in Beckon Cove as long as you like."

The sound of hooves clicking on the stony ground made them turn, as Annis joined them, mounted and ready to leave. Hunith glanced at her for confirmation, clearly expecting the queen to have heard the invitation, and Annis agreed with a firm nod for Mordred, whose habitually blank expression had taken on a startled cast.

Four of Caerleon's warriors carrying the king on a litter were already moving out, swift and smooth, surrounded by torchbearers and guards. And Arthur felt a brief pang of missing his father. Safe and content in Camelot, but mentally he was absent more and more, and he knew how he'd feel to see Uther carried so, and attended by devoted knights. Did Merlin know his king was so badly injured, and how did he feel about that? Arthur thought he could guess.

He covered his reaction, turning to mount Shadow, and paused. "Hunith, do you have a horse to carry you?"

Half her attention had transferred to the king and queen. "No, my lord," she answered. "Her Majesty and I shared, when we came-"

"And so we shall again," Annis said, over Acollyn's clearing of the throat and Mordred's fumbling murmur – both of which Arthur expected heralded a suggestion for a loan of their own mounts, as he'd been about to offer. Hunith cleared a foot from her skirts to use Annis' freed stirrup, and was soon settled behind the queen's saddle without fuss.

Arthur's joints creaked inside him as he swung up on Shadow's back, and he suppressed a moan of protest for sore muscles and bones. They could be ignored while danger was expected or imminent, poor conditions could be endured during travel, but once a body it was certain it was safe again, and headed for comfort, it seemed to make the complaint more and more plain.

As they assumed a position just behind the king and his bearers – moving surprisingly well for men who still displayed bandages – Arthur found himself next to the women of Caerleon, Mordred behind him to the opposite side of Morgana from Acollyn, and the guard from Trevena trailing, the other warriors ranging behind and around, seemingly at their own whim.

"Perhaps it is a story for a feast," Annis said, clearly enough to be heard and understood by their little party, "and perhaps it would be a good way to pass these few hours til our arrival in Beckon Cove…"

Arthur's heart sank toward the pit of his stomach, anticipating her request. Because it wasn't enough to confess that he had been inadequate, insufficient. Alone and unaided, he'd probably be a slave of the Saxons, right now…

"But I would like to know what you found in Ismere, my lord?"

"Ismere," Morgana said behind them, with a hint of strangled incredulity. "And the Diamair? _That's_ what your knight's quest was?"

Arthur didn't bother wondering how Morgana knew that name. Even though details had been kept confidential prior to his departure for his own safety, she probably had ways of checking on him with magic – and he wouldn't mind that, as long as her loyalty to Camelot held. And that was probably certain, as long as her loyalty to Trevena, and Trevena's loyalty to Camelot held.

"It wasn't a what," he said, again treating the subject lightly. "It was a who. A magical being, and apparently she'd called to me in my vigil to come affect her rescue from the Saxons there."

" _She_ ," Morgana said, and he wished he could have this conversation facing her, and in good light, to better judge her feelings by her expression and not just her tone. "And did you rescue her?"

"It was entirely uneventful," he said. "We found her, we spoke – we sneaked out while the Saxons remaining in Ismere were asleep. There weren't many-"

"Because they had come here," Annis said, and Arthur inclined his head.

After a thoughtful moment, Acollyn suggested, "You must have just missed them. The two of you – the three of you – travelling north, and Mor… ah, the Saxons, traveling south."

Arthur had considered that before. Probably it had occurred to Merlin, too. And every person here had a different reason to ponder that eventuality instead of the events that had transpired. Merlin and Arthur and Mordred facing Morgause and the Saxons in the wilds of the uninhabited north… He couldn't help the fine shudder that rippled involuntarily over his muscles, and it wasn't for the thought of death and defeat for _himself_.

"What happened to the Diamair?" Hunith asked softly from behind the queen on the horse they shared.

"We gave her what we could spare of our supplies," Arthur said. "Merlin gave her one of his boot-daggers. And she went further north into the mountains."

"Is that safe?" Annis questioned, turning her head toward Arthur a few degrees, but keeping her eyes on her husband, borne before them away from the druid cliffs.

Arthur wondered how soon til they would see the lights of Beckon Cove. It wasn't late – it might not even be dinnertime, were he at home with regular responsibilities, but he was tired. Probably they all were tired.

"It was her choice," he said. "She was able to adapt her appearance to an ordinary human, an unremarkable old woman, and I have the idea she had a lot of experience existing unobtrusively among us."

"The key to all knowledge," Morgana said – thoughtfully, but with an edge. "What did she tell you?"

Arthur could almost feel Mordred watching him from behind his left shoulder. "He who never trusts, is never betrayed," he said softly.

Silence crept up on them like darkness itself, subtle and slow and never definite til it was realized.

She'd also said, _Your capacity for trust is potentially the greatest strength of your kingdom_ … It was true that he could be his own bane, in how he dealt with Mordred, every minute of the present, as long as they were together, every contact they had in the future, whether many or few. If his choice to trust benefitted his kingdom and resulted in his own downfall… so be it.

 **A/N: Totally late. But extra long, too. I expect 3 or 4 more chapters, even if they grow to monster length like this one…**


	21. And the Night Gathers

**Chapter 21: And the Night Gathers**

Gwaine let his gaze return to the lofty rafters of the chamber above him, though he was aware that Gareth – seated beside his shoulder on the portion of the banquet table claimed for him by those who'd carried him unconscious from the school-room – avidly watched Merlin's reunion with the princess Freya.

"He really loves her, huh?" Gareth said, sounding fascinated and disgusted at once. And since he was going to be parenting as well as training the boy, Gwaine was glad for that particular view of romance to linger as long as possible.

"He really does." Gwaine thought of the look on Merlin's face, when the stir through the room had alerted him to the prince's arrival. Was he relieved not to endure the negative emotions that accompanied loving someone so deeply – the fear and the worry and the pain to see them in pain… or was he just missing out on the comfort of a steady, committed relationship?

Hells, he already had the kid…

"I'm glad," Gareth decided abruptly. "Because I like her. It's good, then, that he loves her a lot."

"It is indeed," Gwaine said, somewhat sleepily. The planks of the table were hard and uncomfortable beneath him, but he really wasn't looking forward to having to move to excuse himself.

"D'you think he's like Balinor?"

Gwaine hummed noncommittally. He'd woken to the dragonlord's bearded face – the last person he'd expected to see, and not an experience he'd want to repeat, though he was grateful for it the once – and his nephew's absorption with the dragon and the magic and the healing. But Balinor hadn't lingered – he'd helped a few others, Gwaine was aware, with magic supplemented with herbs borrowed from the healer's wife, but he was abrupt and broody. Like the dragon himself, maybe. Gwaine was waiting to decide if Balinor was anything like Merlin, or not. He'd already gotten the idea from his visits to Beckon Cove that Merlin had inherited a great deal of his character from his mother – and that he'd paid attention to absorbing the traits desired of him by his adopted parents, over the years.

"He doesn't look like Balinor," Gareth added doubtfully.

"Are you very much like your father?" Gwaine said mildly. "You don't look like him now, but you might someday."

The boy grimaced, leaning into Gwaine's view with his eyes still focused toward the room's great hearth. The expression was quickly wiped from his face with a swift astonishment, and Gareth ducked his head closer to Gwaine's to hiss, "He's coming _here_!"

Pain twinged viciously through Gwaine's neck and back as he attempted to lift his head in involutary response. Merlin's approaching figure swam in the haze of his vision as his head thumped back down.

"Don't get up," Merlin said, hoarse with exhaustion, tempered with amusement and concern. He laid his hand gently over Gwain'e heart, finding a spot next to his hip to perch. "Tell me what happened?"

So he did. Pausing a moment when he got to the part where Tythan stepped into his fight with Morgause to save his life – yes, Merlin had been told his trainer had been killed in that effort of protection and defense. For a moment Gwaine felt the compassion and regret toward Merlin that had come to him at the thought of leaving Gareth bereft, if he died.

Up to the school room and wait, knowing it couldn't last, expecting the witch to break through the enchantments – and then she had. Gwaine made light of his own final attempt, and the injuries he didn't actually remember receiving. Specific recollection ended with the odd weightlessness of momentary flight – and waking had been intense relief to discover that his defeat had not cost Freya significantly.

"Balinor said my collarbone was broken for sure. And maybe other bones cracked in my shoulder," he finished. "He was going to come back for another round of magical healing, though."

Merlin didn't meet his eyes. Gwaine didn't know how to translate that into a guess at the way things lay between the two, father and son.

"I don't know if I owe him my life," he added. "But he's probably saved me a great deal of pain. He seems like a good man, Merlin, someone anyone would be proud to call-"

"Yes, of course," Merlin interrupted, still not looking at Gwaine. And with the fire behind him, he couldn't be sure of his friend's expression. "I have him to thank for saving you, as well."

Just slightly sour. Not eagerly cheerful, or earnestly relieved.

"Can you do magic to heal my uncle?" Gareth spoke up. "They say that Balinor the dragonlord is your father – so can you heal Gwaine with magic?"

"Uncle, huh?" Merlin said, sounding whimsical as he studied the boy.

"This is Gareth, my sister's son. He's going to be my squire," Gwaine said, almost blurting out the information. He wasn't asking royal permission for the appointment, exactly – but the thought that Merlin might disapprove worried him.

"Good," Merlin said immediately, relaxing into a smile for the boy. As if that arrangement was the most natural thing in the world, and Gwaine wished to grip his hand in gratitude for the confidence Merlin's expression gave him. "Gareth, I'm glad to meet you. And I'm sorry to… disappoint. But no, I've not learned any healing magic. I wish I was able to help your uncle, but… I'm sorry."

"But the dragonlord is your father?" Gareth persisted. "He could teach you it, couldn't he?"

Merlin ducked his head in a nod, though it seemed to Gwaine that his mouth twisted in something that wasn't a smile. "Yes, I suppose he could."

Gwaine decided that he was going to think of a few good words to put together for his prince and his friend on the subject of fathers and sons and the responsibility of raising and training. Seeing as how Freya thought she might be in the way of tipping Merlin to the other side of that coin – and maybe she hadn't told Merlin, yet.

"What about you?" Gwaine said. "I heard the Saxons had retreated from the wall – but you were coming south and if they retreated they'd have been going north…"

"Yeah," Merlin said. And now his head was up and his back straight and his eyes steady. "It's a long story, but that part – after Balinor and the dragon left, we ran into Lord Baldwyn – and Ferdrinck had brought some men from Orkan-broch."

"Ferdrinck?" Gareth said eagerly, half a second before Gwaine could.

"Yep. He-" Merlin cut himself off, swiveling in his seat to meet Freya, coming to him with a steaming bowl of stew. He cupped his hands around hers on the dish, and leaned forward to thank her with a kiss on her mouth. She smiled, sweetly self-conscious but happy in a way that made Gwaine happy to catch her wordless glance of acknowledgement before she moved away again.

"Was Ferdrinck injured?" Gwaine asked, as Merlin began to eat in a manner more wolf-like than civilized, even by Caerleon's standards. "My brother depends on him quite a lot."

"No, he was fine," Merlin said. "We saw the Saxons before they knew we were there, and split our forces to take them from two sides. Because they declined to surrender when I offered them terms…"

"Terms," Gwaine scoffed, wincing as he tried to shift his prone position.

Merlin paused, hunched over his bowl and spoon, to give him a grin just as lupine as his dinner manners, just now, and Gwaine grinned too, at the realization of what a barbarian prince might call _terms_. Gareth was breathless with attention.

"If you can talk and eat at once," Gwaine suggested, "and if Freya is busy and you're not needed elsewhere, how about you start at the beginning and tell me the whole story? It sounds like I might be sorry to have missed out on this adventure of yours."

"Sounds to me like you became part of it without even knowing," Merlin countered, scooping another heaping mouthful. "Mm. That's good. Damn I'm glad to be home… So, the second day Arthur and I crossed the border, and he headed for Ismere while I rode into the mountains…"

Gwaine couldn't help smiling at the look on Gareth's face as the boy leaned over him to be closer to the story-telling sorcerer-prince. The boy wasn't reconsidering his decision to be squire, raised and trained to this life, one bit. And this was one thing Gwaine probably wouldn't have to teach, or drill into his charge – loyalty for their prince.

…..*….. …..*….. …..*….. …..*….. …..*…..

Merlin felt strength and energy return to him with the heat of the stew in his belly, even as relaxation pulled him toward weary lethargy. He sat beside Gwaine and his nephew Gareth, watching Freya and reassuring the folk of Hanbury as they simultaneously settled in for the night and prepared to return to their home village in the morning.

And he cursed himself, even as he maintained calm confidence to cover the sick feeling of failure.

Freya was favoring her right leg. And her wrist was bandaged. He knew there was a subtle and enduring strength to her – he'd seen what she dealt with when they were young and she was new to Beckon Cove, but it wrenched him heart and soul to know that she'd been reminded of what men could do to one another in selfishness and revenge – what magic could do in selfishness and revenge – and he helpless and absent the while.

And Gwaine had never been so still, even when he was asleep. More and more seconds tipped into the pauses before he answered, between his words. More than once Merlin bit his tongue on an offer of his own bed, knowing that of course Freya deserved that, at the end of this evening. And that it would cause Gwaine more agony to get up and move, than it did to lie still.

And then Gareth was asleep, slender little body along the edge of the table beside Gwaine, protected from a fall by Gwaine's arm around and behind him. And Freya curled at the hearth with someone's child being rocked to sleep in her lap, an older sibling or cousin drowsing against her shoulder.

"I cannot imagine how my father could have left my mother," Merlin said to Gwaine, without thinking. Without meaning to. He felt his friend's eyes on him, but he didn't look away from his wife, though she seemed unaware of his gaze. "I mean, I know why he did, and I don't blame him, rationally speaking…"

"If Morgause and her army were pursuing you alone," Gwaine said, his voice throaty from the position, the late hour and the aches he surely endured. "If you hadn't the magic, or a hope of defeating or evading them. You wouldn't lead them to her."

"No, but… it's not the same thing." He knew he could have defeated Morgause, just the two of them. He knew enough of Caerleon tactics and strategy to have fought a Saxon army alone from the shadows, even with minimal magic. He wouldn't have stopped fighting – he wouldn't have fled to hide for years and years.

"And your father isn't you," Gwaine said. "Twenty years ago, he wasn't who he is now."

Merlin made a thoughtful noise. And Balinor hadn't known of _him_ … He watched Freya watch the youngster's sleeping face and felt a sweet ache of longing that he didn't fully understand.

"When you have children…" Gwaine's voice was little more than a husky whisper. "When you have sons. You'll wait years and years for them to know you and understand you. When you found out your father was alive… remember that feeling. Not the doubts and… recriminations. But hope. And a second chance."

Merlin nodded, shifting to meet Gwaine's eyes just before his friend closed them, in weariness or pain. And Gwaine's father was dead, and Arthur's father was cursed… and Gwaine had a squire. And Arthur had Mordred, at least temporarily.

"I'm going to see if my father can come check on you," he said, nudging Gwaine's knee with his knuckles. "At least he could teach me the spell, and I could try it. Give you some relief from the pain."

"Or just that sleeping spell," Gwaine suggested. Not even opening his eyes.

Merlin stood up, his whole body protesting the decision to move after he'd settled and rested. Freya glanced up as he approached her; the older child was asleep but the younger blinked a childish lack of recognition up at him from Freya's lap.

"I don't know if they'll wait to return til the morning," he said down to Freya softly. "But if they've decided to come tonight, they'll be close. Less than an hour til we know… did you want to find a corner here to curl up in and still keep an eye on things, or sleep in our own bed?"

Her dark eyes reflected firelight, and he wished they were alone, with no responsibilities, and he could just hold her close forever – and then lay her down on their bed and curl around her for another eternity. Comfortable and comforted and safe and content.

"It seems selfish to use our bed when these people have only this," she whispered back. "Even if Their Majesties return… but you should sleep in the bed, after your journey. And the battle."

He smiled, reaching to smooth the curl in front of her ear with his fingertips. " _You_ should sleep in the bed," he corrected. "After last night in an armchair in the schoolroom. And the battle here."

"I wasn't fighting," she argued gently.

"Yes, you were." He told her, "I'll be back soon, I'm just going to step outside and take a look around."

She nodded, dropping her chin to look into the rapt expression of the child propped in the crook of her elbow.

It was quiet as he walked out. Not everyone sleeping, but no one really moving about anymore. The great door to the outside still stood ajar, and the night breezes eddied, playing with the tongues of flame on the braziers burning for illumination. He slipped through the door again, feeling the great quietude that lay over the stronghold and the land, woven into the darkness and breathing slumberously. He thought he could make out the reflective gleam of the dragon's scales, but there was no one apparent in the bailey either, save for the torch-bearing guards on the palisade.

He descended the stairs feeling stiff and creaky – a feeling that smoothed out as he moved – and strode to the gate.

Not unnoticed. Someone called down to him, "M'lord?"

"No orders," he returned. Not til daylight, anyway, and it made him feel weary and wool-headed to contemplate everything that must be done by those already worn and grieving. "I just thought, perhaps there were signs of Their Majesties' return."

More than one warrior atop the palisade shuffled, checking that direction to be able to answer. "Not that we can see, yet."

Another countered, "Yes, but that road is low – we wouldn't see them coming til they were only a quarter-hour away. Even at night and bearing torches."

"Let me know if you see them?" Merlin said, again without thinking. Because of course they would do that, even without being told. "And, do any of you know where the witch's body was taken?"

"It's behind the stables," one of them volunteered. "There's a guard, m'lord, just in case… Only, I was one of them what brought her back from where she fell, and… Dead is dead, m'lord. If it were anyone else, I would've been sorry for…"

Merlin cleared his throat, understanding enough. Sorry for how they'd found her. Sorry for how she died. Sorry for the condition of the body. But when one begins a war for revenge, one ought not expect pity from the chosen enemy, even in death.

He supposed he should go see for himself, especially if they were going to prepare the body for travel to Trevena. There shouldn't be anything shocking in the appearance of the bindings, for Morgana's sake. But that meant walking past the dragon – and he could assume that Balinor wasn't far from Kilgarrah – or else going a very long way around, and he wasn't ready for that. The dragon was going to be a fact of life for him from now on, but at the moment he felt vulnerable and young, and he wanted to feel neither of those things when he dealt with the ancient creature. Though he did mean to find Balinor and ask about Gwaine's condition…

Maybe he could walk the wall while he waited, and watch for a moment when Balinor was at a distance from the dragon. That would take the better part of an hour, at the pace he felt capable of. There were other watchmen stationed, surely, at other points around the palisade, and it would be good for them if he-

"My lord! I see… torches, m'lord!"

The companion of the gate watchman added unnecessarily, "I see them, too… Three, four… A procession, sire – probably the king and queen?"

Relief stuck in his throat for a moment, til he met the expectant gazes of the two guards down on the ground with him. Then he managed, "Open the gates as soon as identity is confirmed."

"Yes, m'lord."

He wished there was someone he could send inside to Freya to let her know more people were arriving – but no one had the time or energy enough to spare to stand around at this hour waiting to be given a task. He could go up to the wall to watch their approach – then he'd have to come back down again. And there wasn't time to wash; he hadn't even splashed hands and face before he ate.

"Merlin!" someone called, from too far away for him to recognize the voice, and he turned before he realized the call came from the direction of the dragon's chosen resting place. And most people used a term of respect to gain his attention rather than just his name.

Of course it was Balinor.

He sighed, turning back to watch the inside of the gate – as the guards watched him, and the watchmen atop the palisade watched their returning monarchs.

"It's late and you're not asleep in your bed," Balinor said. "Is something wrong?"

Merlin's nerves snarled in protest at the fatherly tone of the comment. It had been years since he'd gotten such attention from anyone, and years more since he'd accepted it without resentment. He wanted to snap out a bit of Caerleon rudeness – but refrained.

"Evidently Their Majesties preferred to return tonight rather than in the morning," he said without looking at the older man. "Arthur and Mordred must have reached them."

Balinor made a thoughtful noise. "What does your king think of your friendship with Arthur Pendragon? He's fought wars with Uther, hasn't he?"

"Uther is not the man he was," Merlin said evenly. "And Arthur isn't like him. My king has chosen tolerance and truce for the sake of honoring promises I've made to Arthur."

Sarcastic snort. "And does Uther honor promises Arthur made to you?"

Merlin felt his lips curl, remembering the _Endel-Easnes_ that had bound his magic, captive in Camelot that spring, and how Uther had tested him physically. He'd chosen to consider Arthur's promises inviolate, regardless of Uther's actions or decisions.

Aloud he commented, "I think the queen likes Arthur. I have the feeling she liked Arthur's mother, whether she knew her well or not."

"Queen Ygraine," Balinor said softly. "Yes… I liked her, too."

Merlin reminded himself to suggest that Arthur ask Balinor about his mother. It might be a point of truce between the two of them, at least. And because he was leaning that direction, he added, swaying so he could glance toward the dragonlord beside him, "Thank you for what you've done for Gwaine. I would be grateful if you could check on him one more time, tonight, I think he'd rest easier if the pain could be lessened."

"Your healer-woman here should be able to brew something for pain," Balinor said.

Merlin felt a surge of irritation again – and he had not found even Arthur this hard to get along with, as he was getting to know him.

Unique situation, though. Incomparable.

"Filstra is our healer's wife," he said. "And I'm sure she's been busy trying to help the injured for over a full day, now. And their stores of herbs and whatnot aren't unlimited."

"Herbs and whatnot," Balinor repeated sarcastically, as if disappointed in Merlin somehow.

He knew his education had been different from what Balinor would have wanted his son to learn, if Balinor had known he had a son. But he wouldn't apologize, either, for not learning what hadn't been taught to him as important.

"What's the spell?" he said impatiently – the returning procession should be only moments away. "I could try it. To knit his bones, or block his pain, or-"

"Like you'd try the _astyre-me thaneonward_?" Balinor countered. "I suppose they taught you that _reckless_ was a positive character trait, here?"

"They taught me what they thought I needed to learn," he snapped. "They taught me what they wanted me to know. And honestly, I don't much care if you're disappointed, you're not the man I've spent most of my life trying to please."

Balinor's swift inhalation was almost covered by the shout from the palisade. The gate guards reached to unbar and open the heavy barrier even as they looked to Merlin, anticipating his nod.

"I wouldn't have made you work for my approval," Balinor mumbled.

"You are now!" Merlin shot back, his attention focused beyond the opening doors. He moved forward, eager to have Thurston and Annis within the stronghold, to welcome Arthur and Mordred to such hospitality as they could manage, to have each part of his world where it belonged, where he wanted it-

But the procession was led by four warriors carrying a prone man on a litter between them, and the man's body rocked and shifted unconsciously.

The king.

He wasn't dead, because he'd be covered and arranged differently, but to be _prone and unconscious_. Gravely wounded was not an exaggeration after all.

And even though the Saxons were finished and Morgause was dead and he knew of no further threat, Merlin felt as though he'd sunk to his knees in the stone of the bailey ground, as he had when he'd momentarily feared for his mother's safety, questioning Kilgarrah by the telepathic link. An _unconscious_ king meant…

He met the litter-bearers, who stopped but didn't speak. Merlin was aware of riders following, ducking to enter and clear the gate for more warriors afoot before dismounting, but he was focused on the king.

 _Again, boy, again… you'll get it right one of these times…_

The king had towered above him, figuratively and literally, for so long. Even Arthur's situation with his father hadn't prompted Merlin to seriously consider this eventuality as a possibility so close. Thurston was strong and solid and brooding – this, _this_ wasn't him. Limp and silent and passive…

His armor had been removed. His shirt was stiff with blood over the collar, down the sleeve, though the bandage around his neck was clean, on the outside.

A hand squeezed Merlin's shoulder, gentle and warm. "Haelend says there's no reason he shouldn't recover. He might wake anytime. It was just that he bled so much…"

Merlin had to clear his throat to respond. "I'm glad…" He shifted his weight to face the queen, and felt a little like dropping to his knees, if such demonstrative behavior wasn't frowned upon, in Caerleon. He couldn't bring himself to meet her eyes, either. "I'm sorry. This was my fault, and I… wasn't here."

Annis lifted her other hand to his other shoulder, and pulled him to lean down so she could kiss his forehead, a benediction he didn't deserve. "Prince. The enemies who attack our stronghold for any reason are not your fault."

He started, "But if-"

"Tst." The familiar noise she made between her teeth silenced him as it always had during their lessons. "None of that. The _fact_ is, we have had no attempted takeovers to handle in the last three years, no fighting against our own lords because _you_ are here and you are _ours_. We are poised to make a treaty with Camelot for the first time in decades, not another war – and alliances with Camelot's confederates may well follow. The good outweighs the unexpected and unintentional bad by _far_."

Her voice trembled, and then he raised his eyes to her face, seeing the stress she'd suffered – and that it was easing for her, too, to be home again. Impulsively he put his arms around her as he might have done for his mother, and as he'd never dared to initiate with the queen.

"I am glad you're all right," Annis added in a near-whisper, gripping him tightly. "Arthur said you'd dealt with the Saxons in an exemplary manner."

"Baldwyn and Ferdrinck of Orkan-broch should be bringing their wounded and the surviving Saxon captives sometime tomorrow."

She made a noise of acknowledgement that sounded approving. "And your lady wife is unharmed?"

"Her hurts are minor," he answered, as Annis stepped back. "She's taking care of the wounded here, and the people of Hanbury. I understand their elders want those who are able, to return home tomorrow."

"Good," Annis said, and paused. "Speaking of, did someone tell you about Tythan?"

It was a different pang than seeing the king unconscious. Tythan was _gone_ … his trainer had taught him more, spent far more time with him, listened patiently and advised… but he knew Tythan had been proud of him. Had considered his task completed satisfactorily – much as Alator had, years ago. He would miss him, miss the comfort of his support and loyalty, but that grief was pure.

"Yes… Freya said they'd moved him to the crypts. We can hold a ceremony another day."

Annis nodded. "We won't forget him. But it's late – and there's much to do tomorrow…" She signaled the litter-bearers, and Merlin let them move past him toward the stairs.

Hunith appeared just behind him. "You're all right?" she said, embracing him swiftly and tightly. "And Freya?"

"We're both fine," he said. "Bumps and bruises. You can probably talk to Balinor about what happened…"

Hunith looked past his shoulder – presumably at his father. "About Balinor…"

He did as Annis had, resting his hands on her shoulders to kiss her forehead. "It'll be all right. It'll take some sorting, but we'll be fine. Don't worry about me."

"Merlin," she sighed, giving him a small amused smile. "What a ridiculous thing to say to your mother. But get some sleep as soon as you can, you look like you need it. And tomorrow…"

"There's a lot to do," he repeated the queen's words. "I know."

She swayed and he encouraged her with a little nudge, watching her cross toward Balinor, standing alone with arms crossed over his chest as the rest of the warriors trailed into the stronghold.

One stopped in front of Merlin even as Arthur followed by Mordred emerged from the cluster of horses and volunteer attendants. "My lord," he said, pulling his hood down from his head – several inches shorter than Merlin, with gray grizzled through his hair and beard, and squint-wrinkles deep beside his eyes. "My name is-"

"Anden, I know," Merlin said, extending his hand. "Welcome home. Thank you for protecting Their Majesties."

"Of course," the man said, as if mildly offended at the suggestion that he might not have – and therefore deserved the thanks for choosing to. "You might be aware – Her Majesty confirmed my authority after Tythan was killed."

Merlin nodded noncommittally as Arthur joined them. "It's a lot of responsibility," he said. "I hope you make us proud."

Anden's broad face split into an ugly, relieved grin. He inclined his head in a shallow bow of acknowledgement, including Arthur with a glance, and strode away again – presumably to oversee the reclamation of the stronghold militarily. Merlin was going to let him.

"You said Arthur," his friend greeted him, clasping the wrist of the hand he offered.

"What?" Merlin returned blankly.

"Earlier, on the hill. Before the Saxons. You said Arthur – and none of your men seemed to pay it much attention. Do they not know who I am – or do they just not care?"

"Oh." Merlin hadn't really thought about it. "I have the idea that stories circulated, after my time in Camelot this spring? So maybe they weren't surprised that you were traveling in my company here…"

 _In Camelot's dungeon_ , Mordred said silently. His eyes were dark and his face pale with exhaustion. _Did you hear the voices?_

Merlin looked at him. _I did. Why?_

 _I just… wondered if they were quiet, now. Since you'd been there._

He wasn't ready to examine that, what it would mean if it was true. He'd made no effort to correct Mordred calling him by the prophetic name, but that didn't mean he'd claim it for himself. Time would tell.

"Did you like the cliff encampment?" he said instead, and was pleased when the druid boy smiled.

"The dragon is here, I see – and your father," Arthur commented, glancing away into the darkness. "Is that going to be a permanent thing?"

Merlin didn't know if he was asking as a friend, or as the prince regent of a neighboring kingdom that had hunted the dragons and their lords nearly to extinction, and still outlawed magic. Maybe it didn't matter.

"No one knows yet," he said honestly – and tiredly, and Arthur clapped a hand to his upper arm in sympathetic understanding. "You two needn't feel any pressure to be polite, though," he added. "And if I need to order either of them to leave you alone, I'll try to."

Arthur gave him a sudden grin of sarcastic agreement. "You were bound to our stocks and brutalized by dozens of our people," he said. "I can manage being told things I don't agree with and don't want to hear by a scaly old dragon."

Merlin opened his mouth to make light of a comparison to Uther, when his attention was drawn by another pair of visitors to Beckon Cove among the previously mounted party, delayed perhaps by the retrieval of baggage from the saddles before the horses were led away to the stables.

"Morgana," he said blankly. "And Acollyn. I didn't realize… they were _here_."

…..*….. …..*….. …..*….. …..*….. …..*…..

Balinor couldn't help watching Merlin. The fact that he had a son was still overwhelmingly surreal, and it needed to be corroborated by consistent observation whenever possible.

But there was so much _more_ and _different_ information when Merlin was not interacting with him. It was a little like, the impressions he'd formed of the young man on the mountaintop, before he knew the relation. What was Merlin like when he wasn't around Balinor.

It was odd and terrible, watching him react to the condition of the king. Freya had told him of the injury earlier in the day, absent-mindedly and in passing, and he hadn't given the occurrence much thought. Now he couldn't help being reminded of the moment he'd learned of his father's death – and realized what it meant, the burden and responsibility he'd gained involuntarily, and not just the love and support and security he'd lost.

He couldn't imagine a warrior and the king of Caerleon had been loving and supportive, but… burden and responsibility. He could see that weight settling on his son's shoulders. Nearly the same age as Balinor had been, too.

Wasn't magic enough? Wasn't the heritage of the dragons enough? Merlin had a kingdom now, too – and that wasn't even something he'd been born to. He was too young, he was too thoughtless.

Then the queen reached his side, touched him and kissed his forehead and he remembered her saying, _your son is my son_ … Balinor realized it was true, and reciprocated; Merlin embraced the queen unhesitatingly. He wondered for a moment what Merlin's actual mother thought about that – and then there she was.

Hunith hadn't seen Balinor yet. He didn't think she'd even looked for him, or the dragon – not when Merlin was standing right inside the gate.

She was still slim as a girl, graceful and active. Even after the ordeal they'd all been through, she was calm and generous – he had to shift his weight and duck his head a bit to keep his eyes on her as the queen led the litter-bearers and her husband toward the stairs to the tower.

Hunith didn't hesitate to wrap her arms around Merlin's shoulders. He was quite a bit taller than her – _I wonder how old he was when that happened_ – but neither of them seemed at all discomfited by the queen's display… genuine and not uncommon affection, then. Not just the cold mercenary calculation of traits Merlin possessed or could be made to absorb as an asset to the throne someday.

This was their home. Not the little hut in Ealdor that filled his mind at the thought of that word. Did that mean he didn't belong with them, no matter what Merlin said about _for as long as you like_ …?

Doubt stole his breath – but only for a second, because her eyes found his and connected them – past Merlin's shoulder, through the movements of the arriving warriors. That look was an arrow through the heart – a grappling hook that struck and stuck – attached to a lifeline.

Merlin didn't look at him, exactly – but he clearly urged Hunith toward Balinor, and the subtle blessing of their son made him want to laugh and cry at once. He crossed his arms over his chest to lock the emotions tightly inside.

Family? Future? Maybe he didn't want to know for sure – knowing precluded hoping, and anticipation, and trying… And now he was beginning to share Merlin's resistance to Kilgarrah's shared information.

Hunith came to him, sidestepping warriors making their sore and weary way back to their barracks. He uncrossed his arms, but didn't dare more – and again she didn't stop til she was tucked up against him, her hands gripping the back of his shirt under his coat. It distracted him from the sight of Pendragon stepping up to grip Merlin's forearm as an easy comrade – he could think about that more later.

"Merlin said Freya was fine?" Hunith said, looking up at him, chin on his breastbone as she didn't let go. He didn't want her to, either. It was a new, old sensation that he didn't think he'd ever get enough of, having missed it for twenty years. "What do you think of our daughter, then?"

"She's very young," he said. "They both are."

Hunith gave him a _look_ that he'd forgotten he remembered, and that flooded him with warmth. "No younger than we were."

He grunted. He hadn't felt young in… forever. "I like her. She's strong and capable and _genuine_. When you think of _princess_ , you think of… a lot of things she's not."

Hunith nodded, releasing him and stepping back. "She wasn't born a princess. She's had some trials, but yes – she's all the stronger for them. And when you see her with Merlin…" She gave him a smile so happy and proud he felt it a palpable thing to be treasured, tucked inside a pocket very close to his heart and never lost or misplaced.

The moment fractured at the sharp voice of another female, someone he'd never seen before – she was dressed in trousers and tunic and cloak, inky black curls spilling over the shoulders from where it was pinned back from her face. She was pale, her eyes a bit wild, and she ignored a knight in chainmail who was trying to catch her arm.

"Are you the dragonlord?"

Hunith turned. Part of Balinor's mind realized no one in Caerleon wore chainmail, though Camelot's gold dragon rose rampant before a quartered field of white and black on his tunic. Which estate-

"Morgana!" the man said. He was younger than Balinor by maybe a decade, his hair and beard catching torchlight with golden glints. Annis had said that name, too – the friend who'd conveyed the message by magic to him through Kilgarrah?

"Excuse me," the dark-haired lady said to Hunith. Then faced Balinor, and before he could react-

Slapped him full across the face.

"Morgana!" Hunith repeated the name with surprise and reproach that was… faint, and mild.

As Balinor blinked to recover sight and equilibrium, the knight caught hold of the lady, holding her arms to her sides with his own wrapped around her. Possibly he was speaking into her ear; he might have kissed her.

Balinor's face stung. "I beg your pardon?"

The young knight immediately lifted his head – but didn't fully meet Balinor's eyes. "No, my lord – I beg your pardon."

The lady twisted in his arms, still focused on Balinor. "You killed her. You… you just had to kill her, didn't you?"

Why on earth would anyone be upset that he and Kilgarrah had eliminated the witch's threat in a permanent way? Even if they weren't Caerleon, Camelot had even less reason-

"Lady Morgana of Trevena," Hunith said to him swiftly. "Her husband, Sir Acollyn. Morgause was her sister."

Morgause… "The witch?" he said, to clarify. His answer was plain on their faces, but his memory worked too slowly. He couldn't remember anything of the family of Trevena. Gorlois, wasn't it?... All those names belonged to another lifetime. He remembered a little more of the complication Merlin had tried to explain about events in Camelot that spring – and whose strict veracity Balinor had privately disbelieved.

"Merlin told Arthur he could've defeated Morgause without taking her life." The lady Morgana threw the accusation like a javelin.

"I said I could've tried," Merlin's voice interjected as he strode toward them. Arthur was just behind, looking calm and impassive, but the druid boy Mordred wasn't with them. "Morgana – I am sorry for your loss, but-"

"I don't believe you," she spat. "You never understood her, you never tried-"

"She tried to kill us!" Merlin interrupted, exasperated.

"The time for recriminations is past," Arthur said to her, and it seemed to Balinor that he was trying to soothe or comfort her, as well as recall her to calm. "What's done is done."

Morgana didn't answer, but glared at Balinor again.

He could have excused himself on the claim that Kilgarrah had essentially acted alone, and should be held responsible for the fact and manner of the execution, but he didn't. He could have claimed the obvious nature of a battlefield – initiated by the witch in question.

But he didn't.

He glanced at Hunith, whose face betrayed sorrow and compassion as she looked at Morgana – then drew himself up to address his son. The prince of Caerleon, whether Balinor privately believed he was ready for that scope of responsibility, or not. "Your Highness, if my presence here disturbs your other guests, I can depart-"

"That's not necessary, really," Sir Acollyn said, his restraint of his wife seeming more like an enveloping embrace.

Merlin didn't answer. He stepped right up to Morgana – eyeing Acollyn over her shoulder; the knight released her as if in response to an unspoken command. "If you must blame someone, you blame me," he told her quietly. "As I understand it, the king was… incapacitated, before Morgause ever entered our stronghold, before the dragon arrived. That means… I am responsible, Morgana. If you must hit me, if you must hate me, if you must declare Trevena an enemy – and if that means all Camelot must stand behind Trevena…"

Arthur growled unhappily, "Merlin…"

Morgana only stared into Merlin's face. Balinor wished he could see more than just his son's ear and the corner of his jaw. Those few quiet words of determined nobility impressed him – and added to the things Merlin had said to him, more hotly and more loudly – he knew he was going to have to quit considering his son as an unprepared boy. Quit treating him like that. Try to assume that he knew what he was doing, and with the magic.

Then Morgana turned and stalked away – following the horses and their attendants, maybe.

"She's emotional tonight," Sir Acollyn said, by way of apology, rather than excuse. He made an abbreviated bow to Merlin – added Arthur – and followed the lady.

Merlin looked down at the ground, shaking his head. "Mother, it's late," he said, not looking around. "If you could find Maegden – or Freya, maybe – we'll need guest rooms for Arthur and Mordred, and Acollyn and Morgana. Their men can stay in the barracks. Balinor…" He shifted and met Balinor's eyes out of the corner of his own. "A room, if you like? Or if you're more comfortable-"

Hunith cleared her throat. "I will take care of the arrangements," she said, and there was a tension in her voice that drew Balinor's attention.

Merlin's, too. He lifted his head to meet her eyes. Whatever he saw, he nodded acquiescence, and reached to hug her again. "Good night, then, Mother." And hadn't completely let go of her when he offered his hand to Balinor.

"We can shout at each other tomorrow?" Balinor guessed wryly – and was pleased to startle a smile out of his son.

"Something like that. Don't forget about Gwaine."

Balinor nodded.

Arthur said, following Merlin as he moved away, "Gwaine?"

"He was injured… he's inside…"

Balinor was distracted from their conversation by the soft warmth of Hunith's hand slipped into his. He had time to breathe once, meeting her eyes again, and they were alone.

"When we first met," she said. Her voice trembled, and her eyes were focused on his chin. "You needed… me. For many reasons. When you left, I needed you…"

He flinched, imagining her realizing that she was carrying his child. Wondering what to do, how she could do it alone… laboring to give birth… discovering their child had magic… and then the move here to Caerleon for her son to be trained as a barbarian prince.

"I-" her breath caught momentarily. "I never stopped. Needing you. It won't be – the same as what it was, before, but… I took our promises seriously, when we made them. I considered myself married to you. I… still do."

It was hard to breathe. It hurt to breathe. She'd offered herself – not just her body, but everything she was and had, twenty years ago. Before it even occurred to him to ask – while he still felt unworthy-

And now she was doing it again.

He lifted her hand to his lips. "I am yours," he said. "I wish I had known… But I was yours then, and I am yours still. Just tell me what you want, and you shall have it."

She swayed closer to him, leaning against him and closing her eyes. "Stay with me. Or, let me stay with you. It does not matter to me, which. We can talk, but tonight…"

He couldn't speak. The intimacy she offered – whatever degree she desired tonight or tomorrow or next week or next month – he knew how very much he didn't deserve it.

But love couldn't really be earned, could it? Only freely given.

Oh-so-freely.

"Come," Hunith said, shy as a girl as if she remembered those few precious days in Ealdor – long ago and far away, and theirs again, maybe. "I will need to make sure of the other guest chambers, but… there is room in mine, for you."

…..*….. …..*….. …..*….. …..*….. …..*…..

Morgana moved blindly across the bailey, tears burning her eyes. She whisked them away impatiently, well aware that she couldn't give in to the urge and instinct to grieve, here.

Well aware that the dragon was present, lurking in the darkness and probably watching. And the dragonlord. And his son.

Who was her friend, and Arthur's. Because of Merlin, she didn't have to fear who she was and what she could do – she didn't have to fear discovery, anymore. She didn't have to conquer in order to have a home; it had been given to her by her enemy's son. Brother in all but name and blood.

Why couldn't life ever be simple?

"Morgana." Acollyn spoke from close behind her, and his voice held no censure or exasperation, only patience and love. "It's late, I'm sure you're exhausted, they'll have a room for us, and tomorrow-"

"She's here," Morgana said. "Isn't she? Somewhere?" She stopped and he bumped into her, catching their balance back with his hands on her arms. Most of the torches lighting the bailey were near the gate; here at the center of the open space it was too dark to see more than his outline solid against the blue-black of the sky.

"Yes," he answered, his voice deep with concern and love, a familiarity that made her feel not alone – an impression she had felt with Gwen in Camelot… and then with Morgause and magic. "I asked, and they said – the dragonlord gave orders to… recover her. Keep her here and prepare her to… go home to Trevena. With us."

Heaven and hell, that she could have taken Morgause home to Trevena while she was still alive. That her sister could have found contentment and satisfaction in peace there, rather than seeking it in warfare elsewhere.

Acollyn's hand found hers. "I can show you where, but – do you want to do this tonight?"

She swallowed and found herself nodding. "And if we can leave tomorrow, I want to do that, too. I won't… ruin our relationship with Merlin, or Caerleon, but… I would like to leave here as soon as possible."

"As soon as possible," he echoed in agreement, and then she found solace in following his firm grip.

After a moment of stumbling behind him in the dark, she realized they were also following the last of the horses, being led toward at least temporary stabling. Then he came to a stop, and a shallow firepit laid and burning in the stony ground illuminated a small cart without sides, barely long enough to support the length of a figure wrapped in white – burial bindings.

Morgause. So she was not even to see her sister's face one last time?

She thought of the last time she'd seen her, the fierce vitality ignited in her dark eyes, the hard and beautiful lines of her face, the unyielding strength in her slender, confident body – and to see that all lost, to see nothing but an abandoned shell… She remembered how her sister had died, and realized also, if they hadn't wrapped her like this, then Morgana – and anyone else who might jeer and mock rather than sympathize – would see the broken shell of a once-lively person.

No.

She didn't move. Acollyn's hand around hers was like air to the drowning. Heat in the absolute and deadly cold of winter. But the way he held onto her – the way he led her – was thoroughly opposite to her sister's treatment of her, all year in Cenred's castle.

This was love. _This_ was love. This was family.

But she could mourn that Morgause never got a chance to learn what this was, never got a chance to experience it with anyone – to the point that, when she and Morgana were finally together, and Morgana offered unconditional affection and support, she couldn't even recognize it. Didn't know she needed it.

Then she could give Acollyn's hand a squeeze, and step forward to the side of the cart. Behind her she heard someone address her husband – a guard, maybe - and didn't pay attention. He would handle what needed handling, and free her to be herself – a grieving sister.

"Sister," she whispered. Rarely had they used each other's names. Which was odd – another quirk of Morgause's, possibly stemming from the same childhood lack and suffering that shaped her. "Sister…"

She couldn't feel it. Maybe when they reached Trevena and Morgause was laid to rest with their mother and their father, Morgana would feel like her sister's spirit could hear her speak.

"I'm sorry," she said anyway, and the word caught and burned in her throat like a coal, bringing more tears to sting her eyes.

It's not the younger sibling's responsibility to guide and correct the elder. As Arthur had guided and corrected her. Maybe if they'd been just friends, like Merlin and Arthur – maybe if Morgana had Finna's teaching to draw on, a year and a half ago…

"I couldn't save you," she said, blinking to send the tears tumbling downward, splashing somewhere out of sight – and absolutely refused the comparison to her sister's death. "You saved me, at least for a time…" And she was not the only one. Morgana felt such gratitude and connection to Acollyn, Gwen… Arthur, Merlin. "I wish things had been different. I wish I could have saved you. I wish I could have made you proud…"

Merlin standing over the king's litter – which might almost have been the man's bier. Arthur emerging from his father's room with that same look on his face to admit, _no change_ … And they had forgiven her.

"Camelot will change," she said, and her voice felt stronger. "Arthur isn't his father. And someday it will be all you wanted it to be. And you and I will be home, together."

And it wasn't true that no one needed saving, if she couldn't save her sister. Maybe there were others like herself, struggling against the hints of emerging magic, terrified and therefore becoming dangerous by accident. Surely she could arrange something with Arthur, with Finna, to help save those who didn't know how to save themselves.

The thought helped. Turn from the disappointed past to a hopeful future. Not forgetting her sister nor excusing the faults, but building on a foundation her sister had helped to lay.

Acollyn was watching her, hands tucked behind him and shoulders back in a respectfully attentive stance. A guard – or someone – slouched further away, against the wall of the stable structure, swathed in the dark purple fabric of Caerleon. She moved to her husband and he immediately took her in his arms, giving her as always strength and heat, whole and honest love that filled her as his scent filled her when she inhaled.

"Are you all right?" he murmured in her ear.

She sighed her breath out, and weariness descended into the void. "For tonight. Yes."

"Come, then, love. We'll find the room that is to be ours, and rest."

He took her hand to lead her, and she cast a last glance over her shoulder. Maybe the regret of wishing things could have been different still felt like a shard of ice in her heart – and maybe it would melt over time til the pain was distant, and rare.

She allowed Acollyn to lead her, back to the stronghold and the light.

…..*….. …..*….. …..*….. …..*….. …..*…..

Mordred retreated from Arthur's side as the princes moved for the dragonlord and Lady Morgana, but found no refuge. The man who'd come to take the reins of his mount gave him a sharp look, as though he'd recognized Merlin's gelding, and didn't think Mordred had any right to be riding the horse.

Just like he didn't think he had any right to be here, in spite of the invitation issued by the prince's mother. He'd never been inside the walls of a royal stronghold; he'd never spent the night inside an actual bedchamber.

He was no one. He was less than no one, he was a murderer by destiny, if not by deed, and being in proximity to the dragon and his 'lord was a reminder of that inevitability. Balinor didn't believe destiny forced your hand; he believed one day Mordred would want Arthur dead. He didn't understand that Arthur was never Mordred's enemy – he was his rescuer, in more ways than one.

And he would not repay that debt by cutting Arthur's life short by any measure, while it lay in his power to prevent. Maybe that was another way of looking at it – that Arthur was invulnerable to death at anyone's else's hand, and so by accepting the prophecy, Mordred was _saving him._

Weariness betrayed his feet, stumbling over the rough terrain of the darkened bailey, and it startled him to realize that the pattern of torches distant on the palisade wall was broken by a solid shadow with gleaming eyes.

The dragon. And it spoke to him. "So. We meet again, small one."

He stood still, and his fear served to calm him. If the creature snapped him up in its jaws or breathed to roast him where he stood – or simply set its clawed foot down on him to crush him – then at least Arthur need not fear him, right?

"You know," he remarked, as the fear ebbed, "I was excited to see you. To meet you. My people revere your kind."

"Hm. And you do not share those views?" The dragon dipped his head lower, closer.

Mordred only shrugged. "I could hate you, I suppose," he said. "I could swear to prove you wrong. Merlin is determined not to believe you. And Arthur is determined that your words shouldn't influence his decisions. And unless you've explained yourself to Balinor, I imagine he must still be frustrated by the lack of detail."

"As you are?"

"I don't want to hear any more on the matter," Mordred said honestly.

The dragon made a thoughtful noise again. "It may interest you to know, I have no detail to add. The warlock refuses to acknowledge the confines of his path – and so steps outside the foreseeable future. Swaying the whole world to follow him…"

 _Emrys._

 _Even so._

Mordred found hope in the dragon's description of Merlin's incomprehensible power and identity, and closed his mouth on the question of – _does that mean my destiny can change if I follow him_. The elders always said, destiny could not be denied…

Or seen or understood clearly beforehand, maybe. That meant that choices made a difference.

Believing that would have to be enough.

Hurried footsteps clattering over the stony ground not far from them – close enough to recognize the Lady Morgana as she stalked past, the knight he'd been told was her husband just behind. Accompanying, not trying to stop her – they two in the light relative to the deep shadow where Mordred faced the resting dragon.

Another twist of love and hate. Enemies and friends. Morgana's sister and Merlin's wife, and the dragonlord forced to choose between kin and kin. As they all were forced to choose, maybe. Obvious connections and past experiences and insubstantial morals.

And his head hurt; he wanted to sleep for a week and wake up in the forest with people he trusted, who trusted him…

He was free now to seek that out, wasn't he?

The dragon shifted, and Mordred had the impression that the ancient creature was watching the lady's progress. "The ancient prophecies speak of an alliance of Mordred and Morgana, united in-"

" _Not another word_."

Mordred was startled by the snap in Merlin's order – for it could not be mistaken – and belatedly realized, the dragon had been about to foretell something else. Good or bad? Sure or uncertain? From now on, he thought, he'd agree that Merlin's course was best, and avoid all hint of the future.

"Young warlock," the dragon said, in a deep grave rasp. "I merely seek to convey a warning."

"I honestly don't give a damn what you seek to do," Merlin said, coming up behind Mordred. "And I don't give a damn that I can't force your cooperation while my father is still your 'lord. This is _my_ land, and you will speak _no word_ on what you have seen of the future. Not here. Not while I'm here. Do you understand? I forbid you to interfere with any of our lives again unless you're ordered to by your 'lord."

Mordred couldn't help cringing at the uncanny growl in the prince's voice, and stone scraped over rock as the dragon twitched in agitation.

"Your authority is… more irresistible than I care for, young warlock," he hissed out. "I believe I will reclaim my freedom from the blind constraints and illogical ingratitude of humankind now." Without warning, the dragon leaped skyward, swirling dust and torchlight with the wind stirred by his wings.

"Sulky old beast," Merlin muttered.

"But you will have to deal with him as his 'lord, someday," Mordred said.

He felt rather than saw Merlin's grimace. "Don't remind me. But it isn't today… and it won't be tomorrow, if I can help it. But speaking of today and tomorrow and the moment that one becomes the other – how about I show you where you can sleep? Arthur's inside already, and Morgana and Acollyn were at the stair, and I'm sure between my mother and my wife – and the queen – something has been organized that's better than what we've been used to these past days."

"I feel like I want to sleep for a week," Mordred confessed, in the courage of the dark.

Merlin chuckled, and laid his hand on Mordred's shoulder. "Well, it's not practical… but right now that sounds perfect."

 **A/N: A bit late and a lot long! A bit of a quote from ep.2.11 "The Witch's Quickening".**

Also I want to tell you that my friend doberler has put together a youtube video for one of my favorite songs, that always makes me think of Merlin – "Possibility" by Lykke Li. Here's the link, go check it out: EA-ye_ 4Lu1Q. That should work…


	22. Dawn Promises

**Chapter 22: Dawn Promises**

Freya's evening passed in a blur of impressions, after Merlin's return, after Their Majesties' return. The roomful of recovering wounded and temporarily-settled townspeople raised a hushed cheer at the appearance of the Queen, and Freya completely understood Filstra's reaction when her husband Haelend stepped up next to Annis to assure everyone, _the king is alive and recovering apace_.

Though not yet in a condition to address his subjects himself. Freya glimpsed the litter through the doorway as the faithful carriers maneuvered it upstairs.

Freya didn't intend to sway Annis' attention from her husband – both of them distracted by Filstra jumping into Haelend's arms – _I love you, I missed you, I was so worried_ – and the way his hands tangled into her long black hair before he uttered a curt but heartfelt comfort.

But Annis turned to her and surprised her with an embrace of her own. "I'm so glad you're all right. We'll talk tomorrow?"

Freya nodded, a bit chagrined at the tears clogging her throat of a sudden. "I think Maegden made sure your rooms were ready. I haven't seen her for a while, though…"

"Don't worry, we'll manage." Annis cupped her hand around Freya's cheek, turning toward the stairs. "You make sure _you're_ taken care of, tonight. _Both_ of you."

Her face warmed at the reminder, and she nodded again mutely as the queen retreated to follow her husband – but there was no time to indulge embarrassment. The exterior doors had been thrown open and left that way, and Annis had brought back more than just herself and her husband and the warriors, who would thankfully take care of their own in the barracks.

"My lady," said Prince Arthur Pendragon of Camelot, weary and travel-worn and courteous. He bowed politely over her hand and kissed it, pressing her fingers. "Merlin said you were alive and well, and I'm happy to see he was right." He hesitated briefly, setting his jaw, then added in a quieter murmur, "But, as someone who has been a target of Morgause's murderous intent, if you ever feel the need to talk, to discuss things you don't wish to unsettle your family with… I am at your service."

Merlin had told her enough of what had happened in the Forest of Essetir, that spring. She imagined that the encounter must have been difficult and complicated if not downright terrifying, for him – he was a warrior, but he'd been taught to hate and fear magic more than any other opponent. And though Merlin had been there, their truce was not ironclad, nor had his abilities been unfettered and vigorous.

"Thank you, I shall remember your offer." She recalled suddenly, "Gwaine was there, too."

"Yes." Arthur straightened slightly, and his eyes went past her, searching the room. "Merlin said he was injured?"

"Balinor used healing magic, earlier, but it wasn't complete." She led the prince through the crowd – beginning to relax again for the night, though whispers of Their Majesties' arrival had been excited.

"I understand it takes several applications," Arthur suggested. "At least for Balinor. I don't know if Merlin mentioned our companion, a young druid named Mordred, but he took a tumble and broke his arm, days ago. Balinor was able to restore full function, nearly, before he left us."

Freya paused just short of the table where Gwaine lay, young Gareth tucked against his side. Merlin hadn't mentioned another companion; surprising, she would have thought him excited to have a druid join them – but maybe it was delicacy for Arthur's sake that kept him from explanation. Didn't it always come back to the perception of magic. "I imagine it was a bit of a shock for you both to meet – you and Balinor."

"A shock," he repeated, with wry amusement. "An exercise in diplomacy, at least."

She smiled suddenly, seeing again why Merlin liked the other prince so well. "For Merlin, or for you?"

"Yes," he said, showing half a smile on his face and good humor in his eyes. "It's an ongoing process."

"Good," she said, meaning it. Balinor was awkward and abrupt, angry and unsure – but if Arthur could treat open-mindedly with Merlin to the point of sharing their quests, surely he could put up with a passive grudge.

"Who's the boy?" Arthur asked, gesturing to change the subject.

"Gwaine's nephew from Orkan-broch," Freya told him, noticing the stir of new company at the door of the chamber. "He's to be Gwaine's squire."

"What?" Arthur said, more amused by than opposed to the idea, but he moved to the side of the table without waiting for her response.

Freya hurried back toward the doors, recognizing both of Merlin's parents and eager for the reunion with her mother by marriage. Hunith was looking for her, and met her halfway, hugging her so tightly that tears of reaction tempted her.

"Oh, my dear girl," Hunith breathed. "I am so sorry for everything you've been through. Bumps and bruises, Merlin said, but you haven't told him about the _other_ yet…"

"I don't think there's any reason to worry," Freya said hastily, her awareness of the older man, her father and Merlin's – possibly soon to be a grandfather to the babe inside her – heightened. Did he know already, too? "The queen wants to talk tomorrow – that among other things, probably?"

Hunith made a noise of agreement. "I don't suppose you had any warning that guest chambers would be needed – Lord and Lady Trevena are here, too."

"Oh," Freya said, glancing behind her. Was she glad they were coming inside by twos and not all at once? Yes, probably. "But some of these older children are awake – I can give them a few coins for carrying water or fetching linens, or fruit and bread-"

"Don't bother, I'll see to the arrangements," Hunith said. She looked up to meet Balinor's eyes and gave him a little push further into the banquet hall. "And meanwhile, your son wanted you to see to his friend."

Balinor met Freya's eyes, and she was pleased to see a smile under his beard. Hunith must have been another wife who'd reacted with some version of, _I love you, I missed you, I was so worried…_ That phrase, _your son_ , in that tone of voice, spoke volumes, and Freya was happy to hear it for all their sakes.

"Arthur's already with Gwaine," she informed him.

The smile tensed a bit. "Well. I won't be long, then - and if you need a hand, Hunith…"

"I'll come for you," she promised.

Balinor moved toward the table where Gwaine lay prone. Freya could not tell if he was asleep or if he'd woken to a quiet conversation with Arthur, but Gwaine was going to be yet another person who would bridge the gap between the dragonlord and the prince of Camelot. Balinor was going to find out that he'd have to go further afield than Caerleon to find those who'd commiserate in complaint against the younger Pendragon, at least.

Hunith sighed, and raised her fingers to her cheeks as if to transfer heat from one to the other. "I'm married to a stranger I used to love."

Freya smiled sympathetically to see the older woman, always her model of serenity, even slightly flustered. "It'll work, if you're both committed to it," she said. "Thurston and Annis are proof of that. And, I happen to believe Balinor is still head over heels for you."

"Time will tell," Hunith said, her eyes on her husband, lost and feared dead for decades. "And we have time now, thank heaven."

Freya did, very fervently. And looked forward to having time with her own husband-

But it was Morgana and her husband she saw at the entrance to the banquet hall, the lady she was slightly in awe of looking pale and worn and grateful for Acollyn beside her. Freya didn't think twice before starting toward them, and Hunith followed. Morgana's eyes tracked her; Acollyn was watching his wife.

Freya felt a little like flinging herself into Morgana's arms and holding her as tightly as she'd been held tonight – her destiny to be rescued, while Morgana's sister lay dead, her quest for revenge disappointed. Safety made Freya feel generous and forgiving toward Morgana's loss and pain – probably the lady of Trevena felt now as Merlin would have felt if the tables had been turned. Despair at being too late to save a loved one.

But the two of them weren't exactly friends, and Freya didn't want to hurt Morgana more, emphasizing the differences in her fate and Morgause's. Instead she reached to grab one of Morgana's hands in hers. "I'm so sorry-"

Morgana blurted at the same time, "I'm so sorry-"

And both of them halted abruptly. Freya gulped a breath of air and pressed her hand to her stomach – unintentionally, but it drew Morgana's attention. And after all, it was a topic somewhat on the mind in the months following a wedding… perhaps Morgana had also been considering a possible change in her own familial state.

"Are you?" she said only, intently, and Freya suppressed a shiver at the resemblance between the two sisters.

"I don't know – maybe," she said.

Acollyn looked mildly confused, as if they were speaking a different language, but Morgana nodded, an extra measure of almost fatalistic calm settling over her. "No wonder the dragon and its 'lord were so protective, then."

"It happened so fast," Freya offered tentatively. Much too odd to consider how a dragon would know if she could expect a babe to be growing inside her. "I don't think she suffered…"

Morgana flinched, and reached to wrap her fingers around her husband's forearm for support. "Not like you did."

Freya didn't know what to say to that. Her scratches and bruises were nothing in comparison, now – and yet the night spent in dread in Merlin's schoolroom was one of the worst she'd ever endured. And she had some bad nights to draw on, in memory.

"Come, my lady," Hunith said quietly. "A night's sleep will do us all some good. I'll show you to your room."

Morgana nodded, turning to follow Hunith.

Acollyn delayed a single second to reach for Freya's hand, conveying sympathy and sorrow and apology in a single eloquent glance. She gave him a deliberately brave smile in return, glad that Morgana had him to lean on, literally and emotionally.

And speaking of-

Here was Merlin again at last, leaning against the inside of the exterior doors to close them with a dully resounding _thud_. A tall black-haired boy leaned beside him, helping to secure both heavy doors, and even as her heart beat a little faster, contentment descended into her heart to have Merlin within her sight again.

"There you are," she said as he turned. Her smile answered his wide grin of satisfaction as he crossed to her swiftly, not stopping til he'd wrapped his arms around her, pressing their bodies together for comfort and reassurance.

"I think we're finally done for the night," he returned, his voice a deep familiar rumble through his chest.

"Arthur's still with Gwaine, and Balinor," Freya answered. "But your mother said she would handle the accommodations."

Merlin drew back a little, keeping one arm around her back. "Mordred, this is my wife, Freya," he said.

The boy was dressed in the poorest sort of common clothing, and carried a sword on his belt in spite of his youth. But it was his eyes that drew her attention – light blue-gray like the noon sky with a high cloud-cover. He was tense, and controlling his expression – he granted her a small, deliberate smile that gathered rather than dispersing those clouds in his eyes.

"Any friend of Merlin's is absolutely welcome here," she said. Curiosity and confusion over who he was and how he had come to be with the princes could wait for hospitality to come first. "I'm sorry we're not in great condition for guests…"

"It's fine," Mordred said, and he was being polite more than sincere.

As princess she'd dealt with most of Caerleon's nobility, and remembered about half, but she was less familiar with the average warrior than she was with the servants around Beckon Cove. But how could she forget her childhood? Her own triskelion tattoo was concealed just now beneath the bandage protecting the scratch on her wrist, but she empathized with the tall boy, and yearned to make him feel at home as she'd been made to feel.

"I do hope you won't be too uncomfortable here," she said to him. "Beckon Cove was the first place I ever lived that had walls and a roof, too – and it took some getting used to. At first I had to sleep with the window open and an extra sheet hanging up, for the sound of tent-fabric in the breeze."

Mordred's light blue eyes were round. Merlin offered to him, "Freya grew up among the druids, also."

Another small smile – tentative, but genuine.

Merlin said to her, "He and Arthur met years ago, and then again last week in the north. He's been with us, since."

That wasn't really an explanation; not when Arthur was the prince of Camelot, and druids were synonymous with magic. But there was a time and place for curiosity and pleasantries, and this wasn't it; she had no right to request answers and explanations from a shy uncertain guest without offering some confidence, herself. "Sometimes I wish I was still with the druids," she admitted. "It was an uncomplicated life, compared to being a royal of Caerleon, but sometimes I think, there's a reason for things to happen that even the druids can't handle – and then you see that your destiny can be more."

His brows rose, and he looked at Merlin, who wore a wry sort of smile, and wasn't meeting either of their eyes. Freya guessed there was some complication there, and Merlin would tell her if he thought she should know.

"I was cursed and alone," she added softly, choosing honesty and forthrightness, in trying to set this guest at his ease. "The druids turned me out and I thought my life was over. But then I was brought here, and Merlin helped to free me from the curse."

"Merlin broke your curse?" Mordred said, with a hopeful lift to his intensity.

She made a noise of confirmation, but Merlin corrected, "My magic, but my tutor's guidance and direction. Alator of the Catha – he lives in Helva, now – we can talk more later, tomorrow, if you like?"

Mordred blinked, and Freya sensed an overwhelming _Oh yes_ from him, even as he retreated into proper manners. "Thank you for your hospitality, my lady."

"Oh, you don't have to use the title," she said - but Arthur and Balinor were emerging from the banquet chamber together, speaking more or less amicably – but Hunith appeared on the stair, clearly waiting for the men.

Freya moved to follow Mordred as he hurried to join Arthur – the prince of Camelot sharing quarters with a former druid, imagine that – but Merlin held her back, lifting his hand in a final wordless goodnight for what could be called the other members of his family.

"Let's go this way," he murmured into her hair, guiding her past the receiving hall, its closed door opposite the banquet chamber. "It's faster… heaven and earth, I'm exhausted."

She felt the same, and it smothered any self-consciousness to have her young husband home after nearly two weeks, danger and fear and war. He kept her hand as they climbed one of the servants' stairs – narrow and steep and hidden – and it truly felt like climbing.

Once inside their chamber – various candles lit around the room, and fresh water left for them at some point by someone – he dropped her hand to retire to his washbasin and wardrobe at the far end of the room. "Want a bath?"

"I'm too tired to wait," she admitted, aching at the thought of carrying the buckets; she'd fall asleep where she sat at the fire, waiting for the water to heat. Because otherwise, a cold bath wasn't tempting at all. And of course this night, she wouldn't be asking anyone else to perform the service for her.

He slowed, glancing over his shoulder. "With magic?"

"No," she said immediately, giving him a stern look. She loved his generosity, but sometimes he needed someone who loved him, to protect him from the consequences of that trait. He looked like he needed to sleep for a week; he gave her a wry grimace, but didn't argue the point.

She moved through the arched doorway into the second room to disrobe. After scrubbing her body with cloth and soap and towel at the pitcher and basin, she lingered in the shadows of the doorway, knowing he wouldn't enter what had become her sanctum since their marriage. Clean and comfortable in her nightdress, combing the wet tangles from her hair with her fingers, she couldn't help paying attention to the sounds of Merlin washing up in preparation to take her to bed.

Even though she didn't expect his desire for her in the most intimate of ways, not tonight, she found herself balking at the thought of lying next to him, with him. There were certain early memories of death and banishment that had been stirred up by Morgause's recent threats, the attack upon her person that had sparked that catastrophic sequence of events. The choking hopelessness and helplessness she still sometimes had nightmares about was close in her memory, tonight.

Merlin had always been careful and gentle of her feelings and reactions, and of course she'd never fear such treatment from him, but if… if he was the least bit rough or incautious in settling next to her, gathering her in his arms, because he was tired, because he didn't know what Morgause had intended… She feared how her reaction might hurt him, if she couldn't control herself.

"So your father was going to stay with your mother," she said aloud, wondering if Merlin had been aware of that detail of their guests' accommodations. "How do you feel about that?"

He grunted, and his words were muffled like there was something in his mouth. "That's her choice. If it 'akes her ha'ey…"  
Freya came around the corner, curiosity overcoming hesitation. Merlin stood half-naked on the wolfskin before his own wash-basin, feet bare below the short ragged edge of his sleeping trousers, his arm contorted to allow him to tie a bandage around his forearm near his elbow with the aid of his teeth. She remembered the bloody rent in his sleeve with chagrin, and her feet took her halfway across the room toward him.

"Oh, you were wounded – I could have helped you with that."

"Never mind." He focused on the bandage, testing it by squeezing his fingers into a fist, then spreading them. "It's just a scratch, and it's my off arm, but after washing it was bleeding a little. I didn't want it to get on the sheets."

He sighed, and instead of approaching her – the thought intimidated her, mostly for the uncertainty of her own involuntary response – he lowered himself into a chair that stood out from the small table beside him, and looked at her. Not like he sometimes _looked_ at her, with her hair loose over the shoulders of her nightdress, as if he contemplated what she looked like _without_ the garment. But as if he was watching his thoughts, instead.

"I'm pretty sure they're going to stay together," he added, and she knew he was referring to her comment about his parents, and more than just tonight. "Not here, I don't think… I'm not sure my father will get along very well with the king…"

His inattention allowed Freya to take another step, and another, closing the gap between them in the intimacy and privacy of _alone, together_. There were bruises mottling skin cast pale gold by the candlelight, and when she reached his knees and tucked her fingers into the hand he let sprawl over the tabletop beside him, he only tightened his grip and lifted his eyes to hers.

"We'll miss my mother," he said. "You'll miss my mother, and Annis will miss her… but probably they won't go far. Not as far as remote mountaintops, anyway. And if she's happy – and he's happy…"

Freya hummed. "He hasn't been happy in a long time, I think. And unhappiness – or fear – like that, _changes_ a person."

He didn't say anything, only rubbed her fingers between his, holding her eyes with a thoughtful expression.

"I like him," she said shyly. "I'm glad you found him – I'm glad he's here." Merlin grimaced faintly, shifting his gaze past her again. For a moment she hesitated – but after all, half a dozen people already knew the fact of her suspicions, at least. "You might find you have more in common with him than you think… before this time next year."

His eyes snapped back to her, a confused wrinkle between his brows. She couldn't hold his gaze, feeling her cheeks warm, and she dropped her eyes, smoothing her nightgown down her body in shy self-consciousness.

"What, you…" he said, his voice trailing off as realization lifted his brows and widened his eyes. "You think… you might be… _oh_."

She nodded, feeling her sense of vulnerability in relation to his masculinity and right of possessiveness dissolve with his recognition of a new role and a new identity in relation to her. Father of their child.

He rose from the chair slowly, fingers stretched hesitantly toward her belly – but he stopped short of touching her. Then he took her in his arms – not encircling her shoulders as he did when she needed to clutch him round the middle for comfort, but reaching around her ribs to lift her against him, burying his face in the crook of her shoulder and coaxing her arms around his neck.

"Heaven and hell," he choked, and he was trembling. "I almost lost… you _both_. I didn't know…"

Maybe it was poor timing. And maybe only time would dull that memory of fear, soothe that worry. She tightened her grip and whispered back, "But you didn't."

"Who else knows?" he asked, his breath heating her skin. She rubbed her fingers in the soft hair at the back of his neck, lightly stroking his skin over his shoulder-blade, over his spine. "My mother?"

She nodded.

He went completely still. "My father?"

"Maybe?" she said, giving her body an uncertain wriggle. "Maybe the dragon… can sense…" He exhaled against her and she felt disappointment and defeat from him – more to do with his relationship with the great dragon and its 'lord, than her. "I think I'm terrible at keeping a secret," she confessed. "Some of our friends have guessed, too."

He snorted an involuntary laugh, surrendering to what couldn't be changed. "Who else?"

"Gwaine? Morgana?"

His sigh stirred her hair and sent a shiver rippling through her. "Are you happy? I didn't want to think about it, expect it – I thought it might take a while longer… Freya, are we ready for this?"

She heard what he meant – _Am I ready for this_. Because it couldn't have been easy for him to realize how close the king had come to death… and of course he was also thinking these days on the abilities and responsibilities he'd inherit from his father, in addition to throne and crown and kingdom.

"It won't happen right away," she reminded him, reassuring herself at the same time. "We'll have time to get used to the idea. And so much help when it happens."

He laughed again, drawing back slightly. His grin was wide and his eyes were bright, and she couldn't ask for a better reaction from him than that single expression. "Are you sure I haven't… fallen asleep unknowing, and now I'm dreaming this? I'm so tired – this feels surreal."

She took a step back, drawing him with her toward their bed, ready now for the comfort of their closeness, the effect of relaxation rather than stimulation. "It'll still be true in the morning. Come on – I'm tired, too."

He followed willingly, helping her throw back the covers on their bed, watching her climb onto the mattress and curl on her side before he joined her, sliding in next to her and tucking her into his chest with infinite tenderness, ending with one arm around her.

"Happiness feels surreal," he whispered.

She disagreed; it felt very real. But she snuggled into him to settle, and he kissed her shoulder, and it was moments only til boneless immobility told her he'd succumbed to slumber.

And moments only after that, when she did as well.

…..*….. …..*….. …..*….. …..*….. …..*…..

Annis left two candles burning, one on either side of the bed she shared with her husband. Currently shared, though Thurston had been tucked comfortably between sheets, and she herself was curled atop the coverlet. The better to keep her sleep light and watchful, since she'd dismissed all other attendants to their own much-needed rest, confident enough in Haelend's confidence that there should be no dire, sudden crisis stemming from his injury anymore.

Thurston often snored when he lay on his back – his breathing was too deep and slow for that now, though if that changed, she hoped he wouldn't rouse himself to try to roll to his side. She was still a little nervous as to the state of the wound in his neck, if he wasn't aware of the need for caution.

That nervousness kept her from falling too deeply asleep, in spite of the exhaustion following these last few days of stress and action. She wasn't young, and it was true that Merlin's abilities had acted as a dampener on the violent ambitions of Caerleon's elite these last few years; they simply weren't used to any sort of siege anymore.

Much less, defeat and retreat. And life-threatening wounds.

"It's over," she whispered aloud, just to hear the words spoken, and definite. "It's over… and we lost good men…" For a moment her throat threatened to stick closed when she swallowed, thinking of Tythan. "But we won."

Candlelight wavered on the backs of her eyelids, and she had to squeeze them tight to keep the tears inside.

"I miss you," she continued, knowing he'd have no patience for such sentiment, were he hale and hearty and aware. "I'm not ready for you to leave me…"

It struck her that Hunith must have felt the same way, for twenty years.

It struck her for the first time that _Uther_ -

Thurston made a sound in his throat, and some part of him – hands or feet or both – twitched under the covers. Annis shifted to get her elbow under her so she could look into his face – and found him blinking back, scowling in mild confusion.

"My lord," she said, trying to keep her voice composed, even as her heart jumped in her chest, interfering with her ability to draw breath calmly.

He opened his mouth and exhaled, clearly trying to work some moisture around his speech. She thought of reaching for a cup of water on the side table – he growled out, "Woman."

Her laughter caught on a sob, and she swallowed both sounds.

His eyes stayed open – and cleared a bit as he took in the surroundings of their own chamber. "The battle," he rasped. "The siege? The people of… Hanbury? I remember…" His hand shuffled weakly out from under the blanket, fumbling toward his neck; she guessed the last thing he would remember was leading the charge to keep the Saxons occupied while the refugees rushed for the vulnerable gates.

"Don't," she cautioned, pressing his hand and then retrieving the water. Positioning the cup carefully – swallow by careful swallow, til he was wearied by the action, and fell still again.

But he watched her. And she couldn't help smiling.

And repeating, "It's over. We lost good men – but we won."

"The witch?"

How much to tell him? His eyes were keen, and he showed no signs of surrendering to unconscious slumber again. Full story another time, she decided. "She's dead," Annis told him. "She was after our princess, as it happened-"

His brows furrowed and his body tensed, under the covers.

"Freya's fine," she answered his apprehension. "Our message to Morgana was relayed to Merlin, who was with his father. Balinor came swiftly with the dragon, and caught the witch in the open."

She watched him absorb the information. "Saxons?"

"They fled." So she'd been told, though they'd been absent from Beckon Cove at the time. "But evidently they ran into Merlin, along with Arthur and some of our men, so they've been defeated, too."

"Men… from?" Because there were still places in Caerleon where she might worry for Merlin to be caught at a disadvantage, and the level of loyalty expected to show.

"Orkan-broch and Landsdown," she said.

"Mm." Again he considered; she considered a commendation at least, and maybe a reward for Baldwyn, and Lord Myles though he wasn't personally present. Thurston repeated the noise, and managed, "Merlin."

"He's fine also," Annis assured him. "Arthur complimented his leadership."

If he'd been himself, Thurston might have snarled an expletive and an uncomplimentary comment of Camelot's opinions. As it was, his lip curled slightly and he ignored her remark. "What of – his father?"

"He's still here. I'm fairly sure he and Hunith will come to some arrangement that will look a lot like a marriage. The dragon, I'm told, is elsewhere. I suppose we'll have to address arrangements about that, soon."

Impatience drew his brows together. "Merlin's father," he repeated, more strongly.

"Is a decent man," she said softly. "But between Hunith's influence and Merlin's loyalty, I don't think you need to fear Balinor's ambition at all."

He swallowed with difficulty, his eyes roaming the ceiling, and his thoughts. "Merlin's loyalty?" he whispered hoarsely.

She smiled, leaning over him to catch his gaze again, feeling her throat tighten in a way that threatened tears again. She knew he'd wondered, when first they heard of Balinor's identity, and survival. She herself worried for Merlin's sake, and the difficulty of harboring divided interests, but she'd had the advantage of years of witnessing how Merlin's struggles with Thurston had sprung from that deep loyalty – expressing it, not threatening it. And the look on his face when he'd seen Thurston on that litter…

"Damn you if you doubt him, Your Majesty," she said. "He is your man. Your son, as much as he is mine, without diminishing the bond he has with Hunith. Different ways, different reasons, different results. We will never lose him."

Her husband made a noise of agreement in the back of his throat, relaxing subtly. "As long as… we don't… make him choose."

"If anyone can be both, it's him," she said. "You wanted a prince that could handle power with a level head – and we've got him. Balinor and the dragon will be… complicated, I think. But Merlin's had good training, and he's made good friends, they'll help keep his thinking straight."

"Gwaine," Thurston rasped, betraying nothing of what he thought of the man, the boy he'd once turned away. She didn't add, _And Arthur_. Pick her battles, and the whole story another day. "Where's Haelend?" he added. "Has he said… how long I must lie here?"

She almost snickered in satisfaction at the evidence that he was _returning_. "It's hours yet til dawn. Sleep a little more, and after breakfast he can come and tell you what you're strong enough for."

"Woman," he growled again. "I'll tell him… what I'm strong enough for." His eyes glittered under closing lids, and she tucked herself down carefully at his side, feeling the pull of deeper slumber herself.

"Of course. My mistake."

He muttered something that might have been, "I love you," and she drifted away with a smile on her face.

…..*….. …..*….. …..*….. …..*….. …..*…..

Merlin's body woke before he did, a growing awareness of soft warmth behind him, as he sprawled on his side. Breath on the back of his neck, inhale-exhale curling behind his ear. Skin pressed intimately against his bare back, and her hand-

Her arm tucked beneath his, against his ribs, her hand sliding down his belly to the ties of his trousers. She'd been shy last night, though maybe that was down to being tired, or being… in the family way. Seemed like maybe she'd gotten over some of that.

Anticipation coiled through his veins, his mouth dropped open and his lungs expanded to draw in more air, more swiftly, and he didn't bother opening his eyes. He held very still in case he unintentionally provoked a retreat into reticence again.

He didn't think she was wearing anything.

"Are you awake?" she whispered against the lobe of his ear. Lips, and then tongue.

"Do…" He had to clear his throat, and still he sounded breathless and a bit hoarse; he was lucky she'd never seemed to want someone who was smooth and self-confident all the time. "Do I have a reason to be?"

"Mm." He could hear the smile on her face.

She shifted, tugging his shoulder down so he would roll to his back. And then he blinked at her, dawn just beginning to warm the air of their chamber, her curls a dark halo about her face that he tangled his fingers in, pushing them aside to see her more clearly – he barely glimpsed eyes and mouth, before she bent over him to press her lips to his.

"I missed you," she murmured, even as she shifted her body atop him, significantly intimate.

No reticence in evidence, but he paused over the untied laces of the trousers he wore to sleep in. "What about – the baby? What if we-"

"It'll be fine. We can be together for months and months, til I'm round and heavy and neither of us really want to, anymore…" She dipped down to kiss him again.

It was unusual for her to initiate so boldly; he felt a hint of desperation, the receding wave of their ordeal retreating into the past, and understood. How close they had come to losing this – to want, to need to demonstrate definitively that they hadn't. He wanted to roll them over, to cover her body with his and assure her in a physical way, his desire for her would never wane, even and especially when she was large with their child, but he didn't. This morning was about what she wanted, and he let her lead and control, sweet and sly and slow and-

Heaven and earth, he'd missed her. And loved her.

And when the world shattered in fervent bliss around them, he told her so again and again, gasping the words with each breath til she giggled, settling against his chest where his heart refused to stop pounding for several moments.

"I love you. I love you… _Oh_ , I love you…"

She sighed, nuzzling into the side of his neck and trailing fingers through the perspiration drying on his skin. "Good morning."

"The _best_ … But we have company," he reminded her, perfectly content for her weight to pin him to the mattress forever. It reminded him of their last night together - weeks ago, when Arthur had first arrived in Beckon Cove. When he and Gwaine had just returned from disappointment in Merendra – and Gwaine hadn't even stayed the night.

He'd forgotten to ask Gwaine about his mother.

There was probably a hundred things, at least, that he'd forgotten to do since his return.

"Are you quite sure we have to dress and go down?" she asked languidly.

"No. _We_ don't – you may snuggle down and go right back to sleep if you please." He raised his head to kiss her shoulder, then began to scoot out from under her. "But I… will have to look forward to tonight."

She made a pouting noise. "What's tonight?"

"Well…" He stripped his trousers all the way off and strode to the washbasin next to his wardrobe. "Tonight it will be just you and me again, here alone together."

Shuffling sounds told him, she'd left the bed as well to prepare herself for the day, and – it would be downright offensive if he didn't sneak a glimpse of her slipping naked behind her dressing screen, even if she was unaware of his regard.

"Alone together – that sounds like a contradiction, doesn't it?"

And if he didn't concentrate on the cold water, he'd be tempted to hide them both away in the depths of their bed, again. Pretend for another hour or so that the world – and their respective responsibilities – didn't exist.

As it was, he was first ready and had to pace at the door before she appeared, still pinning the last curl into place in a natural-looking cascade behind her ears, glowing in the rising light of the morning spilling over the open windowsill. He opened the door for her as she approached, but she smiled as she passed him in the doorway – like a cat in cream, satisfied and pleased with herself - and he couldn't help catching her with an arm around her waist. Letting her momentum swing them about in the hall in spite of any watching eyes, he took his turn to pin her gently but possessively against the wall. She laced her fingers behind his neck, allowing him to tug her hips against his.

"I missed you, too," he said, tasting her lips again, lightly.

"I realized," she confided, playfully.

He didn't let her go. "Tell me we're going to be good at this?"

"At what?"

"Being a family." Her questioning look softened to understanding. He clarified, "If it's a boy – or if it's a girl-"

"Don't worry about that now," she cautioned gently.

"No. Yes. I mean, whichever one, they'll have – you, and me."

"Mother _and_ father, you mean," she said, dropping her eyes to hook her finger over the top toggle of his soft hide vest. He wondered if she was thinking of the parents she'd lost at a young age, as he was thinking of his father, discovered alive after a lifetime of absence. "We'll just… have to wait to see what destiny has in story for this little one."

"Thurston says you've got to fight for your destiny, that no one will hand it to you." Which was true, in a certain sense… but it was also true, that sometimes destiny _did_ hand you responsibility.

Down at the end of the hallway, someone cleared his throat, roughly and deliberately, and he moved away from Freya, thinking instinctively it was the king.

It wasn't the king. Longer hair, longer beard – his long coat was missing from his profile against the light of the window, though. Balinor lounged in the angled seat provided by the archer's slit at the end of the corridor. His hands were busy, and as Merlin and Freya drew closer, he saw that the man had a short knife out to carve bits from a block of light-hued wood.

And beneath his beard, the suggestion of a smile to go with the knowing twinkle in his eye.

Merlin grinned to feel his face heat, content to be embarrassed at the thought that it might be obvious, what had delayed the two of them in their bedchamber that morning. He slid his fingers around hers; she was pink as well, but she met Balinor's eyes.

"Good morning."

"Kilgarrah once said to me," Balinor responded lazily, "that I didn't need to seek my destiny, it would come to me."

Merlin made a rude noise, leaning past the dragonlord to peer down toward the bailey through the arrow-slit. "Speaking of, where is he this morning?"

Balinor blew a short hard burst of breath on his carving. "Kilgarrah has returned to the northern mountains."

"By himself?" Merlin said, uncomprehending.

Freya said happily, and at the same time, "So you're staying?"

Balinor lowered carving and knife to his lap. "Perhaps not here in the stronghold, but… yes." His eyes dipped to Freya's midsection. "I have reason to want to remain nearby, if you'll allow."

Merlin felt a distant and momentary ache, for the chance that had passed them all by, neither he nor Hunith had known of that very same reason before Merlin's own birth.

Never mind; they'd make the most of their second chance.

"Will that complicate things with Kilgarrah?" he asked. Balinor cocked an eyebrow, pushing to his feet before tucking the implements of his pastime away into his pockets, and Merlin added, "I thought dragons and 'lords lived together? Close proximity, at least?"

"Oh – not habitually. Kilgarrah and I have been a bit of an exception, these last few years. Freed from solitary confinement, but with no home or kin to return to…"

Freya reached to place her hand on Balinor's arm in impulsive sympathy, and he covered it with his own to keep it there. Merlin turned for the stair downwards, bringing them both with him.

"I have to say," Balinor ventured. "I realize you could have refused to have anything to do with me, or him, after Gaius told you about us."

Merlin wondered if he meant you to include Hunith, or just his son. He snorted, keeping his eyes on the stone steps. That was a terrible way of addressing a responsibility one would someday inherit, to ignore it. Responsibilities were different from prophecies that way; they _needed_ attention and practice.

"I'm relieved to find that you're curious, instead-"

"Oh," Freya said, and snickered.

Merlin read her thought, and nudged her with an elbow in gentle protest. "Hey."

"What?" Balinor said.

"Your son," Freya told him lightly, "is nothing if not curious."

"They used to say the same of me," Balinor remembered with amusement, glancing aside at him as they descended into the light and busy bustling noise of the main hall. Arthur and Mordred were recognizable from behind, seated on the last steps below them. "Though I'm afraid my curiosity has grown somewhat rusty over the years."

It occurred to Merlin, though his quest had been successful in the major points… it was far from _over_.

He found he was pleased with that.

"We have time," he said.

Evidently Hanbury was in the process of taking their leave from Beckon Cove, and the queen was positioned beside the great door, thrown open to the morning for ease of passage, to receive their thanks and send them on their way with a personal wish of good luck for the future. Annis glanced up and caught sight of them on the stair, and moved away from the door.

In reaction to her shift of attention, the stream of refugees, contentedly burdened with family and possessions, also looked over their shoulders, though they continued their exodus with genuine smiles and nods of respectful greeting and farewell. Merlin let his gaze slide over the last dozen of them, returning the wordless salutation.

At the bottom of the stair, Arthur and Mordred rose; the druid boy had tucked himself tighter, and therefore rose with his feet on a higher step, bringing him nearly level with the prince's height, and they both looked at ease in the other's company, after sharing quarters. That eased a worry Merlin hadn't realized his subconscious maintained, however illogically.

"Excuse me," Balinor said, mostly to Freya. "Breakfast in the hall? Hunith is probably there – I'll see you again shortly."

Freya made a noise of agreement; Merlin thought she was also focused on the queen's expression – a smile that reached her eyes, without shadow. For the moment Annis bypassed Arthur, who stood quietly attentive, and then Merlin wasn't thinking of him, either.

"He's awake?" Freya blurted their assumption, reaching to catch the older woman's hand as they met her on the level floor.

"He was awake," Annis corrected. "Resting again now. Haelend said it was a good sign, and he should get stronger now til he's fully recovered."

"Does he want to see me?" Merlin asked quietly, a touch of dread shadowing the brightness of the morning. "I should report…"

"He does want to see you, but later," Annis said. "And it's not because he's concerned about your report, Merlin."

"Oh." He found the idea that Thurston _just wanted to see him_ , a bit surprising, still. Hard to believe after so many years thinking he didn't measure up to expectations. He supposed, in any case, he'd have to prepare the king for an introduction to his dragonlord father. After the first explosion of temper over the deception carried by Camelot's physician, Thurston had seemed stolidly uncaring about the fact of his heir's father's survival and the possibility of Balinor's inclusion in their affairs in the future. But now that Balinor was here… Merlin scoffed to himself over the likelihood that Thurston would be as skeptical over Balinor's influence on him, as the dragonlord had been over Merlin's training.

But no one ever said life in Caerleon was _congenial_.

"Go get something to eat, now," Annis urged, this time including Arthur and Mordred with a gesture. "Trevena is already seated, and it won't take long to ready your horses, either." She turned, excusing herself back to a hospitable oversight of the last of the departing villagers.

Merlin turned to Arthur in dismay. Of course with the end of the battle, the completion of the quest – he understood Morgana's desire to be gone from Beckon Cove as swiftly as possible, but… Yes, he supposed he understood Arthur's wish to return home to Camelot without further delay, also.

"You're sure you have to leave today?" he asked, not really trying to hide his disappointment.

Arthur gave him half a smile. "I'd like to make the border by sundown, at least."

Which meant there was no rush; Merlin exhaled in relief, and moved to encourage them to accompany him into the banquet hall. "Well, I can't promise you sausages…"

Arthur snorted. "We've waited for you so long we could eat just about anything, hey Mordred?"

Merlin, feeling his face heat to remember the cause of the delay, began to protest, "You didn't have to-"

Mordred said to Freya, "We didn't wait long. It was only a few moments, really."

Arthur smirked, and Merlin elbowed him, and as they entered the banquet hall together, Merlin reflected – just as his quest wasn't really _over_ , neither was Arthur's. Nor Mordred's.

 **A/N: Way late again, sorry. Excuses: my sister's kids, job-hunting. Why did I expect summer to mean** _ **more**_ **free time, again?... Anyway, another long chapter to make up for my tardiness, and a love scene. And, one more chapter to go before this story is complete!**


	23. Satisfaction: the Choices of Destiny

**Chapter 23: Satisfaction: The Choices of Destiny**

Mordred leaned over his knees, his feet on the next step down from where he sat, arms loosely wrapping his legs, the sword at his belt twisted awkwardly out of his way. Merlin's arrangement of wearing it across his back had some advantage, he thought, if one could get used to reaching for a hilt over one's shoulder, and not at one's hip.

Prince Arthur sat beside him, his longer legs sprawled to a lower step, watching the departing villagers make their way through the opened doorways, thanking the queen who wished them well. Queen Annis of Caerleon intimidated Mordred, but he thought he admired her, too.

"You could go with them," Arthur remarked.

Mordred glanced at him. The prince's eyes followed the villagers dispassionately; he was recognizing an option more than pressing a suggestion. He was right, though, the refugees would probably welcome him. He was old enough to work for his keep, and there was the magic in addition to his muscle that could be used, here in Caerleon. If they'd had casualties, there would be need. And he'd be within hours of Beckon Cove and Prince Merlin.

Emrys. Who might, after all, want Mordred settled close by.

But that felt _temporary_ , to Mordred, to contemplate. Work and shelter and sustenance. But no training, no learning, no progressing, no _meaning_. He'd been with the druids long enough to know how much he didn't know, yet.

And if his fate was to be part of the story of Emrys and his king, he wanted to be a productive and beneficial part.

Voices behind and above alerted him, with the faint vibration of footsteps descending the stairs where they sat. The queen noticed, too, and moved forward as Mordred pushed to his feet, turning. Prince Arthur stood at the same time, but waited – and so Mordred waited – as the dragonlord excused himself to the great chamber where Mordred had glimpsed the refugees, last night.

Only days ago he'd marveled to consider himself in company with princes. He marveled again to wait as queen and princess were added, discussing the health and expectations of the king of Caerleon.

Then Queen Annis shifted to include Prince Arthur – and Mordred. "Go get something to eat, now. Trevena is already settled, and it won't take long to see to your horses, either. Excuse me…"

Last night, Prince Arthur had seemed too weary for chatting, and Mordred had accepted the comfort of the bed in the shared chamber, grateful that he wasn't going to be asked to put thoughts or plans into words.

"You're sure you have to leave today?" Merlin said to Arthur, sounding disappointed.

"I'd like to make the border by sundown, at least."

Mordred sighed out his breath, a bit relieved to hear that Prince Arthur wasn't in a hurry. He was a bit nervous about the plans that had formed in his mind to think about his future, now that he had choices – a bit nervous also to reveal them to anyone else. Especially these two.

Merlin moved down the stairs toward the great chamber, speaking of sausages, and Mordred's appetite turned over and woke up. Arthur snorted, and threw Mordred an amused glance.

"We've waited for you so long we could eat just about anything, hey, Mordred?"

He could eat just about anything anyway, and sometimes had. But, while it was all well and good for the princes to poke fun at each other with sarcasm and exaggeration, Mordred was sensitive to the princess, pretty and feminine in a creamy-yellow dress – gown? – and stumbled over his words trying to explain and apologize. "We didn't wait long. It was only a few moments, really…"

She smiled at him, understanding the teasing and his attempt to smooth it over, both. Mordred followed the three royals into a massive banquet chamber, and immediately realized why it had been chosen to house a village of refugees. Would he ever be comfortable in surroundings like these?

It might help to remind himself, his druid childhood and his ordeal with the bandits, living simple and rough in temporary camps and caves, was going to be behind him, now. If he had any say in his future – and Arthur seemed to believe he did. Not unlike Princess Freya herself, maybe – she seemed at home here, despite growing up much as Mordred had, ordeal included.

But Queen Annis had been right about the Lord and Lady of Trevena being already seated for their breakfast. He wore chainmail and his tunic displaying the emblem of his home; she was dressed in black – trousers, and tunic over a white blouse – her dark hair tied behind her head, and exhaustion written into the pale lines of her face.

It reminded him of the morning after he'd been turned out of the druid camp. How it felt to have his connection to Kara severed, and the protest he felt had been thoroughly ineffective.

"Good morning, Mordred," the Lady Morgana said – speaking to him alone, when a nod of acknowledgement sufficed to return the politeness from both princes and princess.

"My lady," he mumbled, feeling his face heat. He covered his discomfort at being singled out by fumbling to a place on the bench with Prince Arthur between them. She was magic, but she was a lady. Another element of this new life he was totally unused to, yet – the company. Royalty and nobility.

Princess Freya gave him a sympathetic smile, settling across from him. She was different; she understood. She wasn't magic the way Lady Morgana was magic, but she'd been a druid.

Mordred wondered if she would have wanted to try the _smeldian wyrd_ , when she was Kara's age. He wondered if Lady Morgana would have wanted to. He remembered _curse_ , and wondered, if Freya had known about it beforehand, what it meant and how it ended, what she would have done – avoid, or embrace and endure. Maybe it would be best for him to strive always to use what he knew about himself and his destiny, for good.

A bowl of porridge was placed in front of him, and his restless stomach growled at the scent of the steam. It was honeyed, and not scorched, and he hadn't been required to cook it – a perfect breakfast, no matter what the princes told each other about sausages.

But, out of the teasing remarks and offhand queries, the Lady Morgana spoke to him directly, again.

"So, Mordred. Have you decided to stay here in Beckon Cove?"

And everyone's eyes were on him. He swallowed with difficulty, awkwardly aware of the great disparity in his status and those around him. _No, it doesn't matter. They don't care. And Emrys and his wife_ know.

"I thought about going to Camelot," he said to the porridge in his bowl – darting a quick look at Arthur's face to see astonishment. "If – if you wouldn't object, sire."

"Now that we're in a castle, you have to call him _sire_?" Merlin said with light humor, giving everyone a moment to absorb Mordred's unexpected decision.

"That's really not necessary unless we're in _my_ castle," Arthur returned mildly, responding to Merlin's quip but addressing Mordred.

"Why Camelot?" Lady Morgana demanded.

In looking up at her, he couldn't help reading Arthur's expression – surprise and curiosity, and no rejection. Even knowing what he knew about Mordred. The Lady, though, was intensity overlying more subdued grief and loss. He understood a bit, he thought; she'd been part of his escape from Camelot, years ago. And no matter what anyone said about King Uther's illness, he was still king. Mordred's life was forfeit under the laws of Camelot as they stood, the moment he set foot across the border.

But if he wanted Arthur to trust him…

"Your quest," he said, wishing he could have gathered courage to say these things to the prince alone, instead of before an audience. "It was partly my fault that it was… compromised…"

Merlin snorted, but it was a sound that drew Mordred in, rather than setting him out.

"And I know you don't have… the object of your search, to return to show your people," he continued, lifting just his eyes to meet Arthur's. "So I thought, I could be a witness, and tell whoever needs telling, the result of your quest wasn't failure at all, it was… just an unexpected way to succeed."

No one said anything, and he felt his face heat. Talking wasn't really something he was used to – not and have people listen. People like this.

Arthur looked more shocked than surprised. Merlin was grinning, his eyebrows up, and Sir Acollyn rubbed a finger over his lower lip thoughtfully. Lady Morgana still looked upset. And after all, he wasn't a crown prince of a sovereign kingdom to be able to demand immunity from punishment, or execution.

"Nobody would need to know I was a druid," he added lamely, reaching up to touch the tattoo just below his collarbone, through his shirt. "I can keep the mark hidden. And after – I thought to go to Helva, maybe? To Merlin's tutor?"

Too late he realized he should have said _Prince_ Merlin. Sire. My lord.

"I was going to write a letter to your council anyway, giving them an objective account of your quest," Merlin said to Arthur.

Who scoffed derisively at his description. "Objective."

"But possibly, they wouldn't accept it, since they know me for a sorcerer. This might be better – and I could write a letter of introduction for you to give to Alator, Mordred."

Merlin's eyes were deep clear blue. No hesitation, no suspicion – maybe relief. Maybe Helva and the druid tutor was a better idea in Merlin's opinion than day labor in a small village, even one that was nearby.

"If you ever need a refuge, Trevena would welcome you," Lady Morgana said suddenly. Her back was very straight, and her eyes flashed as she met Arthur's glance.

"Let's hope it's never necessary for Trevena to hold against Camelot," Arthur returned in a low voice.

She tossed her head a bit in turning to her husband across from her. "Need there be any further delay to our departure?"

"I'm ready when you are," the knight returned – perfectly chivalrous, but with a warm twinkle in his expression that made Mordred think he chose to accept and understand and love her, moods and emotions and all.

She reminded him of Kara. He missed his friend with a dull ache – she had been _his_ – but evidently she hadn't felt the same loyalty. And anyway, both of them were free to meet and befriend other people.

Mordred scooped the last of his porridge from his bowl in large, satisfying mouthfuls, aware that the others were finishing, assuming that when the Lord and Lady of Trevena rose to leave, the others would accompany them, and he thought it would be more polite to walk with them than to excuse himself to remain behind alone.

He was warm; his belly was full, and he'd slept in a soft bed for the first time in his life. Maybe the gods and goddesses had found him unworthy for some reason, turning their backs on him before he could help it, dooming him to a destiny of death and destruction.

In which case, maybe he'd put his faith and trust in the people who'd accepted him in spite of that, and would support him in his chosen endeavor of _preventing_ death and destruction.

…..*….. …..*….. …..*….. …..*….. …..*…..

Gwaine woke early that morning, surrounded by the subtle stir and murmur of the villagers of Hanbury preparing to return home. He didn't envy them the monumental task facing them there – to rebuild whatever the witch had destroyed, to carry on living their lives without those who had been lost.

He would have been tempted to shift positions and surrender to slumber again – he'd done it many a time in a tavern common room, sleeping on a table or under it – but for the pervasive ache promising sharper pain when he tried to move. And he was going to have to move.

"There's breakfast, Uncle." Gareth's dark curls were a tangled mess, his words shaped oddly by the obstruction of said breakfast in his mouth. He gestured with bowl and spoon, and Gwaine decided it really didn't matter if Gareth had just finished his own, or if he intended to share. "Just porridge, Lady Hunith said. Even though there's company."

Gwaine remembered. Last night was shadowed with a haze of pain and the draughts he'd been given to lessen that, but he remembered. Not just dozens of village refugees. Merlin's father, the lord and lady of Trevena, and Prince Arthur of Camelot, to say nothing of Beckon Cove's own royal residents, back where they belonged.

"It's Caerleon," he rasped. Speaking was an effort first thing in the morning, flat on his back and the ache in his shoulder was spreading, up his neck and down his chest. "No one expects fancy."

Gareth grinned at him, leaning forward to offer the spoon. Gwaine figured he preferred a liquid breakfast at the moment – but beggars couldn't be choosers, and Balinor said the energy for healing came from him. The first mouthful of warm honey-flavored mush made his stomach growl.

"D'you think he loves her?" the boy-squire said matter-of-factly, leaning back in his tabletop seat to scoop another massive spoonful for Gwaine.

"What?" Gwaine said, opening his mouth again to receive the offering. Last night it had been, his nephew making the same remark about Merlin and his lady. " 'Oo?"

"Lady Hunith is nice. Maybe because she has only one boy?" Gwaine glimpsed Gareth's mental comparison to his own mother; he'd never have described Siura as _nice_ , but he was glad to see further evidence of the boy's loyalty. "I think, if he loves her, that's good."

The muscles in Gwaine's neck felt like knotted fishnet, trying to turn his head to see to the hearth.

It took him a minute to recognize Balinor, as much for the mane of hair combed back as for the absence of his enveloping long-coat of fur and hide. It reminded Gwaine of the changes that could occur in the demeanor of his two friends – Arthur and Merlin in their respective armor also donned a formless mantle of responsibility that showed the shift in attitude, actions, and words in a real if subtle manner. Balinor looked less imposing, this way, less intimidating – still too wild for a lord of Camelot, of course, but he could comfortably sit down at table with lords like Myles of Orkan-broch.

Hells, though, to imagine _that_ meeting. Would Caerleon consider Balinor nobility because of his title of dragonlord?

Gwaine took a third mouthful, watching the dragonlord speak to his wife there at the hearthside, taking her hand almost shyly, holding it like he'd never been entrusted with anything more precious.

Like feeling the feather-weight and warmth of a second chance in your palm, maybe.

He blinked, and for a moment he pictured the dragonlord in the cave in Merendra that he and Merlin had found abandoned. Rough indifferent natural tone, rough furniture cobbled for function, not comfort. Bits and pieces of a broken life, carelessly neglected because there was no reason to forge them together into anything more than stark existence.

"I think you're right," Gwaine said. "It'll be good for him to love her."

Where did that leave the dragon? he wondered. Even if they had remained together after Balinor helped the beast escape from Camelot, would it remain in Caerleon?

It didn't look to him, though, as if Hunith was disappointed one whit, anymore. Even though the passage of several years had been anything but smooth, like his sister he thought Hunith was satisfied with where it had brought her, to the relationships with those around her, new and fulfilling and unexpected, from the viewpoint of the past.

The two shifted away from each other, Hunith gesturing with the hand Balinor held, to encourage him to leave her side – in Gwaine's direction. Gareth, watching as Gwaine was watching, shoveled the last spoonful in his own mouth, scooting out of the dragonlord's way as he approached them.

"Good morning," Balinor greeted them.

"Emphasis on good?" Gwaine suggested, not moving from his prone position. "The accommodations were far more civilized than what you're used to."

"And the company." Balinor tilted his head, reminding Gwaine of Merlin – because he'd never noticed that mannerism from Hunith – and gave him the first smile he'd ever seen on the dour dragonlord's face. "Did you find it so when you first stayed here?"

"Far better than village taverns and mercenary camps, that's for sure," Gwaine agreed. "Accommodations and company both… though yours was of the female variety."

Balinor glanced at Gareth, and huffed in a self-depreciating way. "I didn't have time to figure out how to be a husband when we were first together," he said to Gwaine. "Much less a _good_ one…"

Gwaine made a thoughtful noise. "If you don't mind me saying it, you might learn something from your son, then. In return for teaching him all about dragons."

Balinor's mouth twisted wryly beneath his beard. "I think he's already begun those lessons on his own…" He leaned forward to check the bandaging that stabilized Gwaine's arm, changing the subject. "How does this feel, this morning?"

"Sore," Gwaine allowed, and tensed against the pain as the older man spread one hand more firmly over his collarbone, slipping the other beneath his shoulder.

Balinor murmured words Gwaine knew for magic; he wasn't yet so well-versed that he recognized them, though as with Merlin, he trusted their intent. Heat spread through him, akin to the feeling of a spill of blood over his skin, but in this case it was soothing and calming, the opposite of alarming.

He swore in hoarse relief, setting Gareth to giggling, and opened his eyes to see the smirk still on the dragonlord's face. "You know," Gwaine managed, as Balinor withdrew his hands slightly, to offer them for Gwaine's assistance in sitting up. "Every quest from now on that this imp of a squire accompanies me on, is going to seem boring and inconsequential in comparison."

"Do you think that will make him change his mind?"

He grunted. "No. This boy isn't one who's going to run away."

Gwaine felt his nephew's small hands on his back as he tensed for another reason – and his muscles and recently-damaged bones worked together to raise him to a sitting position on the edge of the table, his boots dangling almost to the floor and his head threatening to lift off and float away to the smoky rafters in the dim far overhead. He turned his head to take in his nephew's expression, having expected Gareth to add his own protestation, and found the boy's attention had been claimed by new arrivals at the chamber door.

The princes. And Lady Freya, and the boy Arthur and Merlin had brought back with them from the north.

"And," he added dryly, "those two will continue to liven things up for the rest of us. And then there's the dragon…"

Balinor made a face.

"They're sitting with my lord and lady of Trevena," Gareth hissed, plucking at Gwaine's sleeve. "Can we go? Join them?"

"I won't be welcomed to join the lady of Trevena, but of course you…" Balinor said. "Take it easy til you get going, though."

Half a year ago, Gwaine would not have been welcomed to join any of them, anywhere. He thought it the effect of Merlin's personality, somehow, and wondered if it was only a matter of time before his father felt that irresistible inclusive draw also. He suggested, "Maybe next time."

Balinor grimaced again, but didn't argue, and Gwaine wasn't in a hurry, either. His legs held him and his shoulder felt stable, if weak and achy; later he'd take the bandage off and see about his range of motion.

"How about riding?" he asked. "I have a feeling the activity around here is going to be of the labor-and-organization sort…"

The dragonlord was shaking his head before Gwaine finished. "No, that's not for you, yet. Lifting and carrying should wait – but you ought to be all right a-horseback, if the pace is leisurely and the journey without conflict."

Gwaine cocked an eyebrow at Gareth, who was breathlessly intent on his decision. "What do you think? Fancy a trip to Camelot?"

…..*….. …..*….. …..*….. …..*….. …..*…..

Balinor trailed behind the younger man, understanding what drew Gwaine to his friends but not feeling the same sense of urgency, himself. He didn't figure the folks from Trevena or Camelot would mind missing a farewell with him.

The boy Gareth scampered after Gwaine, and that made Balinor smile. The young were so resilient, all it took was a full night of good sleep and a reassurance in the strength and ability and love of those who looked out for them, and they were ready again the next day for more adventure.

Balinor had seen Gwaine himself run after his own father on fat, unsteady legs the same way. On occasion, he'd had swung Gwaine up to ride on his shoulders when the little boy couldn't keep up… and it hurt to think he'd missed doing that with his own son.

But grandsons… and granddaughters…

At the doorway of the grand chamber, he paused to glance back – just as Hunith straightened from the hearth at the far end of the room to look toward him. He raised a hand to wave, and she returned the salutation, turning back to her work.

He wandered across the floor of the hall to the doors left open by the crowd of younger people, pleasantly half-blinded in the morning light. Already the air was warming after the chill of night, and he found the noise of a populated tower and bailey didn't set him on edge, at all. It was like Camelot, where he'd spent half his time growing up, with his father. Enough to remind him of those good days and good memories, long ago.

Balinor paused at the top of the stair, watching the half-dozen below him. Family, children of old friends. He'd never spoken to Gorlois personally; he'd never met the Lady Vivienne. He wasn't worried if Morgana of Trevena held a grudge – though he was sorry for the pain she felt at losing someone she loved, otherwise he wouldn't fault Kilgarrah for his violent intervention. He squinted and noted the wagon at the gate, men lounging on the driver's bench dressed in black tunics over chainmail – Trevena's escort, ready and waiting to bear their pitiful burden back to Trevena's burial vaults.

Acollyn seemed a decent sort, level-headed and quiet. Balinor watched the knight hand his lady up to her mount before swinging a-horseback himself. Together they turned the horses' heads toward the gate with one last call of good wishes exchanged. The boy Mordred, near enough Arthur's elbow to reach out and touch him, lifted his hand to acknowledge something the Lady said.

Balinor shifted out of the doorway, easing himself down to sitting on the top stair, feeling in his pockets for his carving knife and the block of wood he'd begun shaping. Tradition held that a dragonlord's first would be a son, and of course the carving would be finished before the babe was ready for toys, but… the rough image of a dragon that Balinor had in mind would just as much for his son as for his grandson.

The gates opened for the group from Trevena to exit and disappear from sight into the lane along the outside of the wall, but the rest lingered there at the bottom of the stairs, and Balinor felt no embarrassment in watching them.

There was a lack of tension between Mordred and the others that relieved him. Young Gareth had claimed the older boy's attention, jumping around him with great deliberate leaps requiring both feet at once, talking with barely a pause for breath, by the looks of it. Maybe discussing the druid boy's weapon – maybe discussing his magic.

The easy camaraderie between Geart's son and his filled Balinor's heart with satisfaction, and the princess seemed content to lean against Merlin and listen to the three young men, not begrudging one second of her husband's time. They teased in a way that was familiar to Balinor – and it ached that he had no one left to include him in such, anymore.

Abruptly, Prince Arthur threw his head back to let a peal of laughter ring across the bailey, and the sound stopped the rhythmic motion of Balinor's hands, claiming his entire attention. Merlin and Gwaine were both grinning, but that laugh… that took Balinor back to a time when he was no older than Mordred – both boys looking toward their elders curiously – when Uther and Ygraine's marriage was full of youth and hope and vitality. Balinor remembered when Uther laughed like that, unreserved.

Heaven and hell, spare these two young princes from the weight of rule that forbid humor and constrained trust…

But there were attendants leading more horses toward the group, packed and saddled. Four of them; he recognized Arthur's gray mount but not Merlin's, and assumed Mordred was being given one of Beckon Cove's spare mounts. And if the druid boy wasn't coming back to return it, that was a truly royal gift.

Then Freya turned, lifting her chin to look up the stairs toward him – lifting her hand to beckon him to join them.

He still wasn't sure Arthur or Mordred would appreciate his presence, but – well, when a princess who was your daughter and carried your grandchild summoned, you pushed upright and stowed your carving once again to obey.

"I don't imagine the council will raise any serious objections," Arthur was saying to Merlin. "But it might be several days before anything is resolved."

"We'll be waiting for Gwaine to bring us word, then," Merlin responded. "Best of luck to you, Arthur, as always." He reached readily, and the Pendragon gave a half-smile in taking Merlin's hand. It was genuine in a way that made Balinor slightly ashamed when the two of them looked up and shifted to accommodate his arrival.

"Safe travels to you, Your Highness," he said, giving Prince Arthur an abbreviated bow, to indicate his respect and to apologize for his rudeness til now without voicing the words. "I – appreciate your support of my son these past few weeks."

"Finally satisfied he hasn't got any ulterior motives?" Merlin said, with a snap in his voice that Balinor couldn't blame him for.

Then again, maybe he was glad that his son wasn't a naïve milksop – though it made him wonder about the advisability of cuffing Merlin lightly upside the head. They didn't have the familiarity of years of expressing discipline and respect and affection at all, much less in such a way – but it was Caerleon, after all…

He chose to ignore Merlin's comment. "And I want to express my sincere regret for the consternation caused you by Kilgarrah. And Mordred too, of course."

Mordred stepped closer. "I don't hold that against you, or him," he said quietly. "I know you didn't mean any harm."

As to what Kilgarrah meant… that might be deeper and more complicated than any of them wanted to examine.

"Queen Annis has said," Freya spoke up, gently and effectively redirecting the conversation, "how Arthur reminds her of his mother, Queen Ygraine. You knew her, Balinor – what do you think?"

The prince didn't show his reaction in his expression or posture, but his _eyes_ …

"I do see her in you," Balinor said. "But you also… remind me of your father. I'd forgotten what he was like. Before."

He was aware of Merlin's experience with Uther – and Mordred's – but for the moment he focused deliberately on Arthur like they were alone. Perhaps to make up for his unearned treatment of the young prince; perhaps to earn some favor back from his son. Perhaps, simply to speak what was _true_.

"He was a good king. It was hard, what he did, fighting to conquer his enemies and bring Camelot together as a kingdom. But when your mother died, your father… broke. Men like Gaius and Gorlois, they stayed with him because they loved him, and they kept hope… Some like Geart were… sent away, when they had better stayed." Gwaine grimaced ruefully in the corner of Balinor's vision, but he didn't glance away from the Pendragon. "I was given no more choice than that, but I… I rather wish I had been."

Arthur nodded, understanding, and reached to take Balinor's hand in the grasp of a comrade – which was quite astonishing, considering, and gave added evidence that Merlin's judgment of his character was more correct.

"I am so very sorry for what happened to you and your family. I know I cannot promise a better loyalty between myself and your son, but I do hope… the future proves my intent."

"I feel like I want to say something sarcastic here," Merlin remarked. "But nothing comes readily to mind."

Arthur elbowed him.

"I have a suggestion," Gwaine offered, grinning. "But it's rude as well as sarcastic, and as there's a lady and a child present…"

"I'm not a child," Gareth spoke up, scowling. "I'm a squire."

"So you are," Gwaine said down to him. "Mount up, squire, so you can be ready to attend upon His Highness' favor."

"I am glad to have met you," Arthur said to Balinor – and a sly twinkle preceded the qualification, "after all."

"I hope I see you again," Gareth said to Balinor.

"We will," Gwaine interjected, trying to press his nephew toward a bay gelding, while Arthur and Mordred mounted their horses.

"Mordred said…" Gareth was not quite finished; his evident admiration gave Balinor a quiet sort of confidence he hadn't realized he'd been lacking, in living alone. "You healed him with magic. And Arthur. And my uncle. I want to see more…"

"So you shall, someday." Gwaine bent and scooped the boy over his shoulder, swinging him toward the bay.

Alarm spiked in Balinor. "Oh, Gwaine, you shouldn't-"

Freya seemed to feel the same, stiffening beside Merlin. "Your shoulder, Gwaine, please be careful!"

Gwaine rolled his eyes to them. "Of course I didn't throw this bony squirmy squire over my _injured_ shoulder…"

"I will write to you when I reach Alator in Helva," Mordred said to Merlin. "Thank you for everything. My lady, thank you."

Freya lifted a hand; Merlin said, "Alator should have my letter before you reach him. I look forward to seeing you again."

Arthur leaned over his saddle to point at Merlin. "We missed your wedding because of the weather, but I expect to be invited when there's a child." Freya covered her stomach with one hand, and her smile with the other. "Even if you have no ceremonies whatsoever here in Caerleon, you promised me that barbarians do in fact name their children."

"Bring your wife when you come," Merlin returned with a sly smirk.

"I just may." Arthur let his full grin show, turning his horse's head to follow the others to the gate, raising his hand in one final farewell.

"Oh," Freya said, after a moment's silence and the last glimpse as they passed beyond the wall. Merlin's exhale was quieter, but poignant with regret. "I forgot there's going to be _work_ to do today…"

"I'm sorry the company didn't stay," Merlin told her, wrapping his arms around her and kissing the crown of her head. "But you must rest whenever you need to, you know."

"I'm sure your mother and the queen will make sure of it," Freya said wryly.

"I would help as well," Balinor said, knowing that he sounded abrupt. "I… I'm not exactly a guest. And I would not ask your mother to leave here til she's sure she's ready. I… well, we need to discuss the dragons, but… when you're ready for that, too. And in the meantime, I'd rather be useful than idle."

Merlin studied him a moment, and he was startled again at the flash of something… _authoritative_ , in his son's regard. "It feels like a deficiency in my training, that I know nothing of healing," he said. "I was going to see the men in the barracks – I've got to discuss the resumption of training with Anden, and there should be a vigil of remembrance organized for the fallen. But I can see if any of the wounded are amenable to having their prince practice healing magic on them. If you'd like to give me some pointers."

"It's a place to start," Balinor said, instinctively smothering the outward expression of the relief he felt.

Merlin nodded, looking pleased. "Give me half of an hour – the barracks are just there." He brushed his fingertips over the curve of Freya's cheek, and she smiled. "I'll see you later?"

For a moment they both watched him walk away, striding across the rocky ground of the bailey, head up and gait confident but loose.

 _I've never been a father before_ … Balinor confessed to his daughter, "I have no idea how to train him to be the next dragonlord, when I'm gone. My own father did not expect… well, I suppose he expected we'd have more time."

"I could help you, if you like," Freya offered. "Her Majesty might have some advice, too, she taught him quite a lot of lessons over the years. Perhaps if we made notes and wrote some things down – the topics you feel like you need to cover, and maybe some general organization or order? Maybe some ideas if practical lessons are advantageous?"

Even that suggestion was a better start than he'd had since Merlin said to him, _I am your son._

He smiled at her; it was different letting her see his reactive emotion. "I'm so very glad he has you."

Her lips quirked with shy pleasure, but she returned the compliment with pretty gravity. "I'm so very glad he has _you_."

And Balinor himself had far more than the cold stone of a damp cave and the treacherous ephemera of disappointed dreams. His destiny had come to him, after all.

…..*….. …..*….. …..*….. …..*….. …..*…..

Gwaine had given up fishing for details on the princes' journey to the north, by the time sundown found them crossing the River Rusk into Camelot's territory.

"Not enemy territory, my uncle said, because Prince Arthur is regent, and he's friends with our prince Merlin," Gareth confided to Mordred. The boys were riding alongside each other, behind Gwaine who was next to Arthur even if he wasn't talkative like Merlin could be. "I'm on a quest, too – I'm going with my uncle, to see that it's true."

He glanced over to see whether the prince had caught the boy's comment, or not. Arthur's mouth took a rueful shape, and he reined in to dismount in a little clearing near enough the source of fresh water for their convenience that night. If Mordred answered, it wasn't audible – which had become usual for the boys, over the course of the day – but his quiet demeanor didn't seem to deter Gareth.

"Is it still odd to you," Gwaine asked, stretching muscles and bones conformed to his saddle for hours that sometimes seemed interminable. At least his shoulder wasn't paining him unduly – thank heaven for magical healing.

"What?" Arthur said, choosing the limb of a tree to wrap his reins around. "The fact that your nephew talks almost as much as you do?"

"Ha. Give him a few years, maybe it'll be more." Gwaine watched his nephew swing his right leg over the saddle, twisting to lie on his stomach and slide slowly down – tumbling the last distance almost down to his rear on the ground.

"Heaven forbid."

Gwaine snorted his opinion of the prince's wit – but it was a point in Arthur's favor that he wasn't short-tempered after the day's journey, only dry-humored. "No, I mean… is it still odd to you to ride in company with us." For all the months he'd spent traveling back and forth between the princes, the fruitless trip to Merendra was the one time he'd ridden with Merlin – and never with Arthur, til today.

Arthur sighed, pausing before he heaved the saddle off his mount. "I know you warriors of Caerleon can't comprehend it, but it was important for me to do this a-"

"-Lone and unaided, I know," Gwaine said, keeping sarcasm from his tone. If Uther hadn't banished his own father, he'd have been raised in Camelot himself, and faced a knight's quest. Alone and unaided. "What about if you're in the company of people that you're giving necessary or reciprocal aid to?"

Arthur let the saddle and its accompanying bundles drop to the earth and straightened, looking at Gwaine.

He shrugged. "I'm just saying, maybe it's only a matter of perspective. No one else chose your path or forced advice upon you or fought to protect you while you stood idly by."

"A matter of perspective, hm?" Arthur tipped him a look that said he wasn't convinced, and didn't care to discuss the matter further.

Gwaine tied off his own horse and pulled down the saddle, keeping an eye on Gareth trying to do the same. Mordred seemed like he knew what he was supposed to do, even if his movements were awkward and unpracticed.

"Mordred, why don't you and Gareth go for some water, and see if you can't find a handful of rocks at the river to guard our cookfire here," Arthur raised his voice to suggest. "I'll find some dry wood and Gwaine can prepare the food, and we'll see to the horses after we've eaten."

The boys mumbled something more or less agreeable, and took themselves off toward the river without fuss or argument, and Arthur ducked a low branch to head into a thicket. But their fare was mostly dry and cold and wouldn't want much cooking – and Gwaine wasn't ready to give up. He followed Arthur.

"Did Merlin tell you we found the cave in Merendra where his father lived for all those years?"

Arthur ignored him, stepping on a fallen branch to snap it to manageable lengths.

"Obviously unoccupied. He looked around a bit, and I said, you must be disappointed. You know what he said?"

"Can I stop you from telling me?" Arthur said sardonically.

"Nope." Gwaine was pleased that Arthur was fairly easy to annoy – but he didn't seem to hold it against a fellow. Merlin had been right to _like_ Arthur. "He started telling me not what he _didn't_ see, but what he _did_. He looked at what was there, and found reason for hope."

"Gwaine…" Arthur sighed, and turned away to gather a handful of twigs before straightening again. "You're not subtle-"

"Thanks," Gwaine said agreeably.

"I understand what you're trying to say, I do. So please quit trying to say it."

"Hm," Gwaine said, making a decision. "All right. Do you know any reason why I shouldn't be happy about the way my boy is making friends with yours?"

Arthur swung around, unbalancing his load and having to catch it back from dropping. The sound of Gareth's voice carried from near the water; Mordred's words were lower, and fewer.

"There's something there, more than you and he and Merlin are letting on," Gwaine said. More than the complication of capture and rescue, druid and Pendragon, debts accumulated and discharged in the oddest of ways.

"Sometimes," Arthur said, setting his jaw in a way that told Gwaine, he was picking his words carefully, "you have to choose to trust someone, with no idea if it's the right thing or the best thing or what the consequences might be, because… mistrust is definitely the wrong thing."

"Yeah," Gwaine said. "I've been there. Did you learn that from Merlin?"

Arthur looked at him again, and the humor that lurked behind his expression was purer, somehow. "I guess you have," he said. "So then it's – sometimes it works out, and sometimes it doesn't, and it's decided by… fate, or destiny, or chance?"

"Nah," Gwaine said. "Our decisions have an effect, too. Can't stop a stream or make it flow uphill, but you can redirect any number of ways..." An idea hit him, and he amended, "I wish you could've seen Merlin this spring, though, after those storms – when magic is involved, the unexpected happens."

"So you… trust his motivation and training," Arthur said, looking toward the sounds the boys were making.

"Just like any man," Gwaine said.

Arthur echoed thoughtfully, "Just like any man."

Everyone made mistakes. And if he was lucky, he'd found and earned the sort of family who'd forgive him – and help him learn to do better. Help him to motivate and train the child who held his blood-oath, too, in the future.

…..*….. ..…*….. …..*….. …..*….. …..*…..

Arthur led the way through the lower town of Camelot, up to the gates of the citadel.

He nodded to acknowledge those who glanced up at the travelers passing – those who bothered with more than a single incurious look to recognize. His solitary knights' quest hadn't been publicly announced, as a safeguard from those who might seek opportunity to harm him, but there might have been a few to see him depart, or to notice his absence this last fortnight, and remark upon it to begin and further rumors.

The clop of hooves on cobblestones and the familiar bustle of home brought back to mind the thoughts that had weighed on him when first he crossed the River Rusk into Caerleon to begin his quest. Alone and un-bloody-aided. No matter what Gwaine said about perspective, it wasn't true that he'd relied solely upon his own advice, or his own sword and skill for protection.

There were dangers and risks on these quests, there were meant to be – to prove the mettle of a man, a knight, and especially a future king. Was he to allow himself to be sold, or killed, or die any other way, because he hadn't been able to perform the task within the Code's confines? And did it necessarily follow, that because he hadn't triumphed completely, that he couldn't?... and therefore, didn't deserve his throne and crown? There was no example within memory of anyone who'd failed, so he wasn't sure whether he faced exile and obscurity, or a second try.

The quest was meant to prove his worth. What did it mean if he had to confess _, I didn't do it alone_? Being a warrior and a king was about risking everything for duty, making sacrifices. He hadn't lost his life, but what if the sacrifice was his pride? What did it mean for Camelot if his reputation as an able warrior and a strong leader was compromised?

"Sire! My lord! Welcome home! Welcome back!"

The guards at the gate into the citadel courtyard recognized him, reacted to send the news flashing from person to person, and he wondered whimsically how many moments it would take before every last inhabitant had heard. He remembered the moment he'd ridden into the citadel with Morgana perched before him on the saddle, feeling every inch the hero, finally successful at that quest. How ignorant he'd been, and how it had cost Camelot…

Once again he was bearing the weight of regard, the center of attention. Merlin talked like the same thing made him uncomfortable in Beckon Cove, but you wouldn't guess it to watch him interacting with his people there.

Sir Ectyr strode toward them across the cobblestones and Arthur dismounted, aware that Gwaine was already down on his own two feet, and that Gareth was gawking open-mouthed and inattentive. He couldn't look at Mordred, recalling what memories the druid boy might have, here. Loss and prison and terror.

"Prince Arthur! Good to see you!" Ectyr called out. Almost he might have called Arthur _boy_ , as he had done in the early days they spent together on the training field. "You look well?"

"I am well, thank you," Arthur said, gripping his trainer's arm in return. Merlin's trainer had been killed in the siege; he was abruptly grateful for Ectyr's steady presence. "And Camelot in my absence?"

"Also well." Ectyr's expression was open, pleased to have him back, not lined or clouded with concern.

Arthur breathed a little more freely to hear. Not that he doubted the ability of his men while he was gone, but… it was always better to be there. Another thing he knew Merlin understood. "My father?"

Ectyr hesitated, slightly but enough for Arthur to _know_. "That is a question best answered by the physician, my lord. But he receives the best of care from personally chosen servants, day and night."

Arthur swallowed regret, and schooled his own expression in the moment. "You remember Gwaine – and this is his squire, Gareth," Arthur said, gesturing.

The little boy's chin pointed straight up as he stared at the peak of Camelot's tallest tower. Gwaine shrugged, and grinned.

"Of course." Ectyr nodded; it wasn't the first time Gwaine had been received in Camelot on official, if private, business. The senior knight didn't exactly approve of the former mercenary, but if he actively disliked him, at least he kept it hidden behind cordiality. "There will be provision made for them in the barracks, again."

"Thank you," Gwaine said, inclining head and shoulders in an insouciant bow. Usually he gave no reason for the knights of Camelot to form personal grudges, which Arthur appreciated.

"This is Mordred," Arthur continued, watching Ectyr study the boy, seeing what his knight saw. Young, plainly dressed, armed with a cheap blade. Awkward more than confident. "He's my guest, and is to be housed and tended as such."

Ectyr's left brow lifted incrementally. Mordred's eyes were wide, fastened to Arthur.

Instead of offering any more explanation, Arthur filled his lungs and exhaled, readying himself to leave his travels behind, and reassume authority and responsibility. "Have Leon meet me at my father's quarters," he said, using his tone to make it more request than command. "Have the council convene in an hour, I want this done tonight. Dinner in-chambers, I won't ask the kitchen to produce a feast at this late hour, but we'll discuss something for tomorrow."

Ectyr gave a nod that was also a bow, and moved away to obey.

If Uther had been himself, it would be the feast he threw for Arthur's triumph – for surely his son, the crown prince, could never return a failure. In that case, he'd not return at all. As it was, Arthur would not celebrate himself; that was too arrogant even if there were no conditions to the quest to be explained, but… the council would want to announce their decision to back Arthur's regency while Uther continued to live incapable of ruling. Or their decision otherwise.

Attendants had reached them, stable boys to take their mounts and porters to arrange their baggage. Mordred was looking a little lost; Gareth was trying to climb the base of the mounted statue at the bottom of the stair.

"Come, sir, I'll show you to the guest quarters," one of the young men was saying to Mordred – who threw Arthur a look that held some panic around the blank edges.

How could he say, _you're not confined at all, you're free to go anywhere in the citadel or lower town_ without raising the eyebrows of those who heard them?

Gwaine slapped a hand to Mordred's shoulder, and kept it there in a comradely way. "We'll come with you," he said. "I've already seen the barracks; I'm curious how guest quarters compare. And, to the council room in an hour?"

"Probably wait in the corridor outside the room?" Arthur suggested. He'd tell the tale himself, and if they decided to hear corroboration, they could call Mordred in.

"We'll see you in an hour, then." Gwaine nodded.

Arthur shook his head to himself as he took the stairs two at a time in his haste. Gwaine was an excellent informal companion; Arthur knew of no one better to put someone completely at their ease unless it was Merlin himself. Or, wait – Freya was very good at it, and here in Camelot there was always…

Almost he wished there had been some necessity for a call upon Camelot's physician. He did need to speak to Gaius about his father - though his own senses would influence his conclusion – but now that he was _home_ , he wanted to see _her_ with an intensity that surprised him.

Damn Merlin for saying _wife_ , and exciting the imagination.

As it was, however, he'd have to wait til they met by chance, and he was impatient, and-

She answered his knock on the door of his father's chamber, dark eyes going wide with surprise and full lips parting on a gasp. "Oh – Arthur!"

He wished he could take her in his arms, but he settled for taking her hand. She immediately grasped his between both of hers, drawing him inside the room.

"I missed you," he said in a low voice.

"And I you – oh, I'm so glad you're home safely!" She led him as she spoke, bringing him along behind her through the outer room, around a corner and through an archway toward the hearth of the bedchamber. "My lord – see who has come! It's Arthur, home from his quest!"

Uther was slumped in his armchair. The blanket that wrapped and hid legs and feet had fallen from his shoulders, revealing a thin white shirt like a nightshirt, laces loose and ornaments absent. His hair was disheveled, and he gave a startled grunt, rousing himself as if he had been sleeping – a good two hours before anyone's dinnertime. There was more white than gray in his hair this year than in any year previous, to Arthur's memory. More bone and slack flesh than muscle, and he couldn't help wondering just how much time he had left with his father – if maybe he was lucky to find him still living after two weeks' absence.

That was a thought to make breath come hard and slow around the pain in his chest.

Uther cleared his throat, squinting between Arthur and Gwen. "What? What's that?"

"Father," he said, moving forward as Gwen did as if he was unable to decide upon his own action, tethered to her for direction. "I'm home, again. The quest was-"

"I'm not your father," Uther grumbled, fussing at the blanket's fringe in his lap. "I have one son, his name is Arthur-"

"This is Arthur, my lord," Gwen reassured him, giving Arthur an unreadable glance.

"Arthur is a young boy, a child," Uther disagreed petulantly, flapping a hand at Arthur to emphasize his unacceptable height. "Not this… _this_."

He stood very still, feeling a quiet sort of panic melting the hard-edged block of anticipated loss inside him, the ache losing shape to ooze into every part of his being.

"Yes, of course he was," Gwen soothed, in a practiced way. "But he's grown up now, a young man."

"I don't remember," Uther growled. Then, in a completely different voice, whimpered piteously, "I don't remember…"

"He's been gone. His knight's quest – and he's home, now."

Uther's hands fidgeted and fidgeted, and he darted two glances at Arthur from the corner of his eye before resettling himself in the chair and tucking his chin to his chest in a defiant wordless dismissal.

Gwen moved back to Arthur, her eyes shining in the firelight with unspilled moisture. "I'm sorry. Maybe in the morning… mornings are better…"

"He's declining," Arthur said. Uther could barely lift his head; the bones of his hands and his shoulders were noticeably more prominent than when he'd left. Weight had been lost, and the rest of his flesh hung uselessly from his frame.

Gwen didn't deny it. "He's quieter, though. He hasn't been trying to give orders or demand answers to questions that don't make sense. And he hasn't mentioned you-know-what at all."

He knew what she meant. Magic.

"I don't think… that I can…" Arthur closed his eyes and felt her small strong hands grip his shoulders, anchoring him.

"Yes," she said vehemently. "Yes, you can. You're ready. And we'll all help you, you know we will."

 _We_. But he knew for a fact that not everyone would be pleased to hear his thoughts and plans regarding magic, or accept without protest of one kind… or another.

But then, that was maybe something intangible he'd brought home from his quest. Humility – the choice to trust – not alone or unaided. But with her, and others like her – Ectyr and Gaius and Leon, Gwaine and Merlin. Mordred.

"I have to go, to speak to the council," he said, giving one last glance to his drowsing father as he retreated to the door.

"I'll call someone to sit with him, and see you there," she told him. He stopped in the threshold, tilting his head in wordless question – _Why, particularly?_ \- and she explained, "Gaius tripped the other day and bruised his foot. Nothing to worry about, but it hurts him to walk on it, so he's been keeping to his rooms. I'll be his representative on the council."

"Well done," he said, hoping the first words to come to mind were appropriate; pride mixed with surprise and came out confusedly.

Evidently so; she beamed, closing the door behind him. It occurred to him for the first time that she hadn't asked after the results of his quest, as if she took his success for granted. Or maybe his return, uninjured, was success enough for her.

He found Leon waiting as he turned to head to the council chamber. "Welcome home, sire."

It was tiresome, in a way, to hear that again and again.

"Thank you, Leon," he said. "A long story from a long trip. Gwaine is here with me, though, so you'll probably hear some fantastic gossip about it."

"Gwaine is here?" Leon said, puzzled.

Because, _a-lone_.

Arthur sighed. "There was no object for me to claim," he said. And to Leon's raised brows he added tiredly, "Long story. Long trip."

"Yes, my lord." Leon wasn't the sort to worry over the unexpected, or to be scandalized when expectations weren't met or conditions neglected. For example, the whole fiasco with Merlin, that spring.

"I have a guest. His name is Mordred. It's likely that he'll be spending some time with Gwaine, and I don't anticipate trouble, but just in case I want you ready to act in his defense." Arthur marked his puzzlement, and held his gaze to convey significance. "Just like you did for Merlin, when he was here."

It took Leon another half a moment to understand what Arthur hadn't put into words. "Oh! Oh. Of course, sire, consider it done."

That was all right, then. Arthur wouldn't ask Mordred to reveal himself to anyone here, not with the way the law stood. That information wasn't necessary, for the boy to give support to Arthur's tale of the Diamair; rather, in addition to decreasing his credibility in the eyes of the council, a revelation of Mordred's origins and abilities might be downright dangerous for Mordred himself, at this point; he didn't have Merlin's status to protect him from reprisals from any direction. And Merlin had only been conciliated over Arthur's refusal to carry a message containing his own testimony – _royal_ , but _foreigner_ and _sorcerer_ – by the reassurance that Mordred's word would be sufficient for whatever credit was to be forthcoming.

But now Leon knew what to be alert to, and what to do for just in case. Arthur hadn't seen magic from Mordred like Merlin was capable of, but then again, the prince of Caerleon didn't bear a druid's indelible mark on his skin, either.

They rounded the last corner to find Gwaine and Mordred by a window at the end of the corridor leading to the council chamber. Gwaine leaned against the wall, feet spread to brace himself casually, arms crossed over his chest. He looked up at the sound of their boots on the stone; Mordred continued to scowl at the floor, arms crossed in a way that was completely different than Gwaine's attitude. Uneasy and defensive.

 _Well, let's get this meeting over with, and send him on his way to Helva._

"Leon, this is Mordred," he said aside as they joined the other two. "Mordred, Sir Leon. You may trust him as you do myself, or Gwaine…" Leon gave the boy an earnest nod, and reached to shake his hand. And maybe Mordred didn't realize the depth of meaning there, but he went pink at the mark of the knight's regard anyway. Arthur added, "More than Gwaine, actually."

"Hey," Gwaine protested, predictably.

But it sounded like the council room held most of its members already; both guards had their helmets turned in his direction in anticipation.

It was time.

Arthur stepped forward, awkwardly aware of how very much this wasn't anything like what he'd anticipated, for years. Like the whole quest, maybe. He was neither glittering with triumphant splendor, nor grim with bloody victory… only smudged and exhausted.

He reached the doors and paused, seeing the faces of men he'd been taught to respect since he was a child. Men he'd been taught to lead. He couldn't help thinking of Merlin, considering the question of the battle with the Saxons, there with the lord and the captain and most of the warriors older and more experienced than himself. Merlin had seized his command without any ado at all – _get out of my way; follow me or go home, but I can do this without you…_

Arthur felt a wry smile creep onto his lips. Well, why not?

"My lords, good evening," he said firmly, striding forward. "Thank you for responding to my summons. I wish to have your absolute support for my regency-" _for the love of Camelot_ \- "and to that end I'm prepared to recount to you the events of my quest, and answer any questions you might have."

Creak-thud behind him as the guards closed the room. He glanced over his shoulder at a hint of sound and movement – Gwen slipping into the room, present and unprotested, though she didn't claim Gaius' seat. She gave him a subtle smile, and nod of support.

 _You're ready. And we'll all help you._

"All right," he said to the group of men gathered expectantly around the table. His men. "Let's get started."

 **A/N: So that's it! I'm really sorry this last handful of chapters got to be so long and so late… But thanks very much to everyone who followed the story, who favorited and especially those who reviewed!**

 **Plans for future endeavors will be posted on my profile page…**


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